What It Means To Be A Man
by Hikari Kame
Summary: Two Sherlocks, two Watsons, three Holmes, and a fated company of fourteen stand at the brink of a third World War. Elementary/Sherlock/Hobbit/Cabin Pressure/Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy/Skyfall
1. Prologue

What It Means To Be A Man

Prologue: 39, 32, 21

Hello? _You told me once, that you weren't a hero. _John. Hey Sherlock, you ok? _There were times that I didn't even think you were human. _Turn around and walk back the way you came. No. I'm coming in. Just do as I ask. Please. _But let me tell you this. _Where? Stop there. Sherlock – okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop.

Oh God.

_You were the best man…the most human, human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. _I…I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this. What's going on? An apology. It's all true. What? Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty. Why are you saying this? I'm a fake! Sherlock – The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Jim Moriarty for my own purposes.

_I was so alone, and I owe you so much. _

Okay, shut up Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met; you knew all about my sister, right? Nobody could be that clever. You could.

_Please, there's just one more thing, one more thing. _I researched you. _One more miracle Sherlock, for me. _Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. _Don't be dead. Would you do that, just for me?_ It's a trick, it's just a magic trick. _Just stop it, stop this._ No – alright, stop it now.

**No - **

Stay exactly where you are! Don't move! Alright. Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me? Do what? This phone call, it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note. Leave a note when?

Goodbye, John.

Um, you told me once, that you weren't a hero. _Hello? John. Hey Sherlock, you okay? _There were times I didn't even think you were human. _Turn around and walk back the way you came. No, I'm coming in – Just do as I ask. Please. Where? Stop there. Sherlock – Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop. _

But let me tell you this.

_Oh God._

You were the best man. _I – I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this…_the most human, human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie.

What's going on? An apology. It's all true. What? Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty. Why are you saying this? I'm a fake. Sherlock -

I was so alone, and I owe you so much.

The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly…In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I invented Jim Moriarty, for my own purposes.

Please, there's just one more thing. _Okay – shut up Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met. _One more thing. _The first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right? _One more miracle Sherlock, for me. _Nobody could be that clever. _Don't be dead. _You could. _Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this.

I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick, it's just a magic trick. No – alright, stop it now. No, stay exactly where you are! Don't move! Alright. Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me? Do what? This phone call, it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note? Leave a note when? Goodbye John. No, don't –

_Sherlock_

Goodbye, John.

On screen, John Watson shot up in bed, chest heaving and shaking. How long would this go on? How long could anyone grieve?

Mycroft glanced over to the bed he was sitting by. On it lay a near comatose Sherlock Holmes, black and blue from his latest escapade into the shadows. It had only been a few months since Sherlock's "death," but already the situation had gotten wildly out of hand.

How long would this go on? How much grief can his brother and Dr. Watson carry before they break down? How much stress could he himself handle before the Ice Man mask finally broke apart?

Anthea entered the room quietly, bearing tea and whiskey for Mycroft. She set it down gently in front of her boss before turning to speak.

"Your son relapsed last night." She whispered. Mycroft's blood turned to ice.

"It's only been a day." He whispered.

"He's back in rehab now. I'll keep you posted on any new developments." She replied soothingly. She sends her boss a look of sympathy before leaving.

Mycroft hadn't wanted to cry since he was a child, which was years and years ago. But now, with his brother on the edge of death and his son on the edge of destruction, Mycroft had never felt so helpless.

What was the point of controlling the world if you couldn't save the ones you loved from it?


	2. Chapter 1

What It Means To Be A Man

Chapter 1: 42, 35, 24

Joan didn't think anything of it when it first started. Sherlock had always been a very eccentric person, but when even Captain Gregson started becoming suspicious, she knew something was the matter.

First came the odd looks from shadowy figures on the streets. The first time it happened, Sherlock dismissed them as the homeless, but Joan followed her gut instinct and pulled her partner away as fast as she could.

Someone snapped a picture of him before they got away.

Then came the odd phone calls to the station; this lasted for weeks. Detective Bell and Captain Gregson were at the end of their patience when it suddenly stopped. That day, Bell had pulled Joan aside to tell her that the phone calls were all asking about Sherlock Holmes, and maybe they should lay low for a while. Joan managed to keep Sherlock out of trouble for a week.

Joan was surprised when she woke up on her own one fine morning. It had been a long time since Sherlock hadn't woken her up with a new case or a new whim he had for her training. She didn't find any notes, so she changed and went downstairs.

She found her partner doing something very, very strange. His face was contorted in a terrible frown, and he was rapidly sifting through papers and texting at the same time.

"Why don't you put the papers up on the wall?" She asked.

Sherlock jumped a foot in the air and jerked as if to try to hide the papers from her. "What do you mean?"

"Well...seems like you're on a case. I'm surprised with that expression on your face you don't already have a wall of crazy up."

He blinked at her, and then his strange expression disappeared. "Nonsense Watson, it's nothing important and it isn't a case. Although Captain Gregson has kindly invited us to a case, so if you could quickly grab your coffee, you can be off."

Joan was confused. "Wait, what do you mean you? Aren't you coming?"

He waved both arms and bounced on his feet lightly. Joan decided to interpret that as nonchalance. "You've done marvelously on your own lately, Watson. I believe I am leaving this case in the most capable of hands."

"Okay, what's going on? You would never let a case from NYPD go."

"I'm busy." Sherlock muttered.

Joan raised an eyebrow. "With what?"

"My father has me on an errand. I'll be with you after I've finished with him, alright?"

Joan left to go get ready.

* * *

It was very late by the time Joan had gotten back. She, Gregson and Bell had pooled their brains together and ended up with quite a few very promising leads. She was still surprised when she managed to solve a case on her own.

She was walking up to the brownstone when a box on the steps caught her eye and she stopped. She hefted it up. It was a package for Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" She cried out.

Sherlock had been very distracted still when she went in but he immediately focused on the box in her hands. He grabbed it from her and went off to the kitchen to open it.

"Maybe you should check the package first."

He turned to her with an incredible look of bewilderment. "Why, do you think the package is suspicious or something?"

"It just feels weird to me. We could take it to NYPD tomorrow - "

"Luckily I have been expecting this package for a while. Good night Watson. I expect full details on the case you have solved today tomorrow morning." With that, Sherlock waltzed off with the package and scissors to his room.

Joan slept very uneasily at night, and her fears were not assuaged by the next morning. Sherlock had left a note by her bedside and disappeared.

_Flying back to England tonight. Family situation; nothing to worry about. Will be back soon. Enjoy having the brownstone to yourself. Make sure to clean Clyde's tank._

Joan would enjoy having the brownstone to herself, even with the tank-cleaning chore. But usually, Sherlock would certainly have told her last night about his trip out of the country. In fact, why didn't she have a ticket? She wasn't his professional sober companion anymore, but she did still keep him from doing heroin.

In fact, it didn't even seem like he was planning on flying out last night, given the disarray of whatever papers he was so focused on last night. Sherlock was incredibly punctual, and always got ready for a trip hours ahead of time. Did he decide to fly out last night? What would have –

The package.

Joan raced barefoot and only clad in pajamas into Sherlock's room. He might've taken the package with him, but the security cameras –

She hacked into his computer and started searching. When she got to the right time, she hit play and sat back to watch. On video, Sherlock walked into his room with the package and scissors and closed the door before slumping to the ground and rubbing his face.

Joan started getting goosebumps.

With great hesitance, Sherlock slowly opened the package. When it was open Sherlock dove for his phone and started texting furiously. Joan zoomed in.

_We have finally found you. You won't cheat death a second time._

The video was blurry that zoomed in, but Joan could definitely make out a bloody human hand.


	3. Chapter 2

What It Means To Be A Man

Chapter 2: A Brother, A Son

It was now midmorning. Joan had called NYPD, had called Sherlock's friends, but all to no avail. Finally, she had no other choice.

She called his father.

As usual, a woman answered. "Hello Mrs. Watson, what do you need?"

"Hi, I need to speak with Mr. Holmes."

"Mr. Holmes is in a meeting right now, he can't be bothered - "

"His son received death threats last night. The message said that he won't cheat death a second time. Sherlock's gone and I - "

"Ms. Watson," a man cut in. The call must've been transferred while Joan was talking.

"Mr. Holmes, thank you for answering my call personally."

"Please, call me Mycroft."

"You can call me Joan, then." She answered.

"Ms. Joan, can you please give me a more detailed account about what happened last night?" Mycroft said blandly. Joan had forgotten how grating it was to talk to Sherlock's father.

"Well, Sherlock has been kind of distracted the last few days, but I just thought he was looking at cold cases to stem off the boredom. But yesterday, he refused to help Captain Gregson, and sent me instead to help. Sherlock claimed he was too busy to help because he was helping you - "

"He was not helping me." Mycroft cut in.

"…When I got back, I found a package on the ground and gave it to him. He said he was expecting it, but I looked on the security cameras this morning and inside was a bloody human hand and a note."

"Could you tell me what the note said?" Mycroft asked politely.

"Yeah, it said 'we have finally found you. You won't cheat death a second time.' And then this morning Sherlock left me a note saying he had flown back to England but he didn't say when he'd be back."

Mr. Holmes was silent for a very long time. Joan started reciting the Periodic Table and human bones to distract herself.

"Ms. Joan, I will take care of this matter."

Joan was quick to protest. "Actually, you should tell me what's going on and let me help - "

Mycroft ignored her. "In the meantime, I am sending someone over to you to keep you safe - "

"Oh, that's not necessary - "

"Ms. Joan, as I said, I will handle this. I am sending someone over to you, and I assure you he will not cause you any trouble. Please prepare a room in your apartment for him. He should arrive by tonight."

"…Fine. And I'll keep a lookout for Sherlock then."

"That would be most helpful, thank you, as long as you stay safe. Your safety is of utmost importance."

"Mycroft, what's going on?"

"I…will call you when I know anything." Mycroft said, and then hung up. Joan hung up as well, and then Mycroft turned to Anthea.

"Call John." He said, and then refilled his whiskey.

* * *

John Watson marched into the Diogenes Club with fury carved into his face.

"I told you never to contact me again." He almost yelled at Mycroft.

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow. "Please control your passionate nature John. I need you at your best."

"If you think I'm going to help you - "

"Once I've finished telling you what has just happened, you will want to help, I guarantee it."

John fell silent, and then slowly sat down. Mycroft poured John a drink and then sat down as well. John pushed his cup away. Mycroft ignored the gesture.

"The information I am about to share with you is…of the utmost confidentiality. It is also very personal. If you ever share this information or try to use it against me I will either disappear you off the face of this earth, or disappear the information from your mind."

John didn't answer.

"When I was a teenager, I had a girlfriend."

John raised both eyebrows.

"She bore me a son, my only child." Mycroft continued.

John was really surprised now. Mycroft sat back.

"I named him Sherlock." Mycroft said guiltily.

"What?!" John hissed.

"I am not sure why I named him Sherlock, though I do know this. I have managed to fail them both."

Mycroft watched in amazement as John's face filled with old grief.

"Sherlock never knew about his nephew, and my son never knew about his uncle. I sent him away to boarding school as soon as I could and he raised himself. He is entirely his own person, yet shares some surprising similarities with his namesake. They both share a love for puzzles and mysteries, both are rather eccentric in their habits, both had a troubled and lonely childhood, and both fell to drug addictions. My brother favored cocaine but my son favored narcotics. I forced them both into rehab. My brother took four tries. My son took only one. He is now living in New York City, in America, and has established himself as a consulting detective as well for the NYPD. As you can imagine, he is getting a bit of attention from the criminal world."

Mycroft took a breath to steady his nerves. "Last night, he received death threats that imply that whoever is after him believes he was my late brother. I can assure you he isn't, but the danger has become very much real."

John slumped and let his face fall into his hands. "So you're manipulating me to be his bodyguard?"

"No. He has a partner, and she may also be in danger. I just want you to stay on guard and help keep an eye out in New York for me." Mycroft said smoothly, before sliding over plane tickets and a few pages of notes.

"Plane tickets; you will be leaving tonight. You have two hours to pack, a car will be sent for you after that. The address you will be staying at, as well as your alias, is on the paper. You do not need to use an alias around my son's partner – I trust your discretion and judgment on what information must be shared and what can be held back."

John scoffed. "Good to see I still have your trust." John looked at his papers. "Double-o agent. Clever."

"Not really. Have a nice trip, Dr. Watson." Mycroft smiled. John's frown just grew, but he got anyway.

"Goodbye M." John said as he left. Mycroft looked over to Anthea.

Her amused expression spoke volumes.

* * *

It was early morning that greeted John when he arrived at his destination. He hated sleeping on planes. He supposed the neighborhood was pretty enough, though he wasn't sure what to make of its color and obvious aging.

John squared his shoulders and knocked on the door. An Asian woman answered it, and then furrowed her brows.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Clyde." He said, remembering Mycroft's password. He wondered if Mycroft had installed security cameras here as well.

The woman let him in and then walked into the kitchen. By the time John had set down his bags she had returned with tea.

"I wanted to get tea for you, but Sherlock claims that all our teas aren't real teas, so I hope you don't mind some Chinese green tea instead." She said.

John had zoned out the second she said "Sherlock." He refocused and ignored the pain in his chest.

"That will be fine, thanks very much. I'm John Watson, I was sent here by Mycroft Holmes?"

The woman blinked at him. "John…Watson?"

John nodded. "Yes. Anything wrong?"

"No!" She protested. "It's just, well, my name is Joan Watson."

John's blood boiled. Just like Mycroft to leave out information like that. He pulled back his anger and asked, "Are we related?"

Joan sat down on the couch. "I don't think so. My grandparents changed their last names to Watson when they immigrated because it would make it easier to assimilate into American society."

John laughed and shook his head. "Two Sherlocks, and two Watsons."

"Excuse me?" Joan asked.

John was feeling quite a bit spiteful and quite a bit vengeful so he let it all out. To hell with discretion and dignity. "You're Sherlock's partner, right?"

"Yeah, we work cases together. We're not a couple though." She clarified.

Now John's chest really hurt. How many times had he said that line himself? John forced himself back into the conversation.

"Just hear me out. You ever wonder where Mycroft got the name for his son? It's because his younger brother's name is Sherlock too, and they've got a horrible relationship. Mycroft probably named his son after his brother because he wanted a second chance at a Sherlock, but turns out he just fucked up both of them."

Joan was frozen in shock.

I met that Sherlock Holmes about four years ago; we were flatmates, and I helped him on cases too. But - " John's throat tightened and he couldn't speak. Joan noticed immediately.

"I'm sorry that you have to be the one to do this, but I need to know." Joan said gently. John nodded and continued.

"After a while – well, I had a blog, you see, because my therapist made me start one, but after I met Sherlock the blog just became all about his cases. We started getting media attention, and then – then Mycroft Holmes fucked up and my Sherlock killed himself."

Joan sucked in her breath. _My Sherlock._

"Before, before he did that, he was doing really well and now people think that your Sherlock is my Sherlock. They think that my Sherlock somehow cheated death and has been hiding out in New York City."

Joan jumped up to get something and came back with her phone. "Just to check, this isn't your Sherlock, right? They're not the same person?"

John was met with his very first sight of Mycroft's son. He had Mycroft's eyes and nose and brain, along with some other features that didn't match. But it was close enough for it all to be believable; that Sherlock Holmes had cheated death, perhaps had some surgery done to change his face, and was now living in New York City wrecking havoc again on the criminal class.

But it wasn't the same person. John would know. He would know.

"No, no it's not the same person. Look, here. This is Mycroft's brother." John said, and pulled out his own phone to show Joan his most prized possession and the one thing he couldn't look at anymore. It was a stealthily snapped picture of Sherlock while he was playing violin. The light was just right, Sherlock looked just right and perhaps the photographer who took it was a little bit in love with the subject and together the picture could take your breath away.

It was an incredibly intimate photo. John still could not understand why he had done it.

"Wow…" Joan said softly, and John couldn't agree more.


	4. Chapter 3

What It Means To Be A Man

Chapter 3: Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock knew his father was not quite right in the head, for all his intellect, but this was something he had never anticipated. Accidentally having a child and then naming the child after your own brother? Sherlock didn't know what to think of his father anymore.

But it did explain a lot. He had tried to hide it best from Joan, because he knew she would've gone straight to the police and he couldn't risk his friends' lives in vain. This was far beyond them, far beyond any of them.

He figured it would go away, actually. Mostly hoped it would. But the pictures and staring continued when he went out (without Joan, so she wouldn't make a scene), even if it was just to get the week's groceries.

The phone calls almost gave it away. They were all liars, the callers – some good and some bad – but they all tried different ways in getting more information about this Sherlock Holmes consultant. It didn't help that he too grew up in London and was a Holmes.

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. So Sherlock told himself when he received a burner cell phone from his uncle and namesake. Sherlock Holmes senior, the younger brother of his father, had faked his death against a notorious criminal named Moriarty (it took a lot of calming techniques to refocus when he heard that name) and had spent the last three years hunting down a criminal network.

After that, Sherlock Holmes of NYC went into full-research mode. He itched to put up his findings onto his beloved brownstone walls, but Joan would notice, and he couldn't have that. So the papers went into boxes: the newspaper articles, the school records, the few mentions of both brothers together, and most importantly, John Watson's blog entries.

That there would be two Sherlock Holmes's in the world was hard enough to comprehend. That they had both managed to find a Watson to save them, that was proof to him that God existed, somewhere.

When the bloody hand and death threats arrived, Sherlock dove for the phone his uncle had secretly left for him and called. It was time he met his uncle.

"Your clothing choices are appalling," was the first thing Sherlock senior told his nephew on their first face-to-face encounter. He had appeared like Batman at Sherlock junior's bedroom window.

"Your current lack of hygiene is appalling," Sherlock junior replied smoothly. "What should I do?"

Sherlock senior glanced over at the package and then started rifling through his nephew's belongings. "Pack one suitcase for your personal belongings and one suitcase for whatever information you have that might help us."

It took two hours for Sherlock to collect all his most precious worldly possessions while his uncle unceremoniously went through his room, occasionally throwing books or case files onto the bed to be packed away as well.

His uncle was zipping up his bags when Sherlock junior called out. "Wait," he said.

He went into his closet and unstacked quite a few dusty boxes to reveal a safe hidden in the back. A few moments later, he reemerged with the biggest file yet. In it were the usual notes and police records, but Sherlock senior was bewildered when he noticed a few photo albums as well.

"Moriarty." His nephew said as he stuffed the file into the already-bulging bag. Then Sherlock Holmes of NYC left a note for his Watson while Sherlock Holmes of London readjusted his disguise.

When they were finished, the two Sherlocks slinked off into the night.

* * *

"After Moriarty's death, there was a power vacuum. Alec The Axe was the victor. He is the most ruthless of the criminals I have faced. He relishes chaos, and has no interest in honor or virtue whatsoever. His crimes are inelegant, and he has already expanded Moriarty's criminal empire to the most unsavory parts of crime. And he is the one after you."

"After you, you mean." Sherlock junior corrected.

Sherlock senior huffed in annoyance. "Does it matter? We have to kill him. You're American, tell me you have guns."

Sherlock junior shook his head. "I left the one in the house with Joan, but I know people who can get us our own small artillery."

Sherlock senior smiled. "Good. At least Americans can be useful in one thing."

Sherlock junior thought of protesting, but then stopped himself. They were bollocks at tea, after all. There wasn't much else, after that.

While his uncle picked the lock to Alfredo's house, Sherlock took his chance.

"Did my father ever tell you about me?"

Sherlock senior gave him a you-must-be-stupid look. "Of course not. I certainly wouldn't have let him take my name."

"Why?"

"Because it's my name." He replied immediately. Sherlock junior didn't know what to make of that.

* * *

Sherlock knew Alfredo was at an addiction meeting, so they had a few hours. Sherlock wasn't sure if Alfredo had guns, but it was worth a try. Alfredo may have left behind that life, but he wasn't stupid. A man's enemies didn't leave you once you decided you had had enough.

His uncle made a beeline for the bedroom while Sherlock turned to the kitchen. He hadn't had anything to eat for a day now, and he was starving. Best to stock up while he could. He'd make it up to Alfredo one day.

"WHAT THE HELL - " Alfredo's voice. Sherlock raced to the bedroom, where Alfredo had his uncle at gunpoint.

"Don't shoot! He's my uncle." He yelled as he barreled into Alfredo's line of sight.

"Holmes! You crazy – I was going to kill him!" Alfredo shouted.

"I know, I know – listen, the two of us are on the run right now; Joan thinks I'm in England and it is imperative she keeps thinking that - "

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, I am not going to help you lie to her, she'd kick my ass - "

"It's just for a few days, I'll be back soon, she won't even suspect you. I need your help."

Alfredo let out a very long breath. "You owe me."

"Of course." He replied smoothly.

"You're going to go to all your meetings for three months."

"One months."

"Two months, and take your chip next year." Alredo countered.

Sherlock sighed. "Fine."

His uncle blinked at him and then asked. "You're an addict? What was it?"

"Heroin." He replied casually. "You?"

"Cocaine. You went through rehab? Finished?"

"Yes. You didn't?" Sherlock could hardly believe his ears.

His uncle shrugged. "No. I kept breaking out. Finally your father trapped me in his house until I detoxed and I stopped using."

Alfredo's eyes were the size of dinner plates at that point. "Okay, you're coming to a meeting too then, Mister…"

"Sherlock Holmes. Yes, his father is my brother. Yes, he named his own son after me, though we have a terrible relationship. Please keep in mind I am supposed to be dead, and not spread this information around, won't you?" Sherlock senior fired off before giving him a cheeky smile and bounding off.

"We need food, guns, and first aid supplies. Half an hour." Sherlock junior added before bounding off as well.

When it was time to part, Alfredo simply hugged Sherlock Holmes junior and pointed a finger at Sherlock senior.

"One meeting, you hear me? You owe me."

His uncle gave the most exasperated sigh ever, and despite their danger neither Alfredo nor Sherlock of NYC could stop their grinning.

* * *

Sherlock took a quick trip to Detective Bell's brother's house to steal some more supplies while his uncle stole a car. When he returned, Sherlock senior had two cars and was furiously texting on his phone.

"Who is it?" Sherlock junior asked.

"It's your father. I'm not telling him you're with me."

Sherlock junior took a breath, and then stole his uncle's cell phone. He dialed before his uncle could snatch it back.

"Sherlock, I have had it with you - "

"I hope you're not mad at me, though I understand you being mad at him." He cut in.

"…You're alright, then?" Mycroft asked nervously.

"Mostly fine, despite the death threats that aren't for me and an uncle I never knew about. Explains a lot actually. That you never visit me or call me by name – I used to think it was because you were ashamed of me, but actually, you were ashamed of yourself."

"…Sh-Sherlock…" Mycroft stuttered.

"_Uncle_ Sherlock and I are going to take care of some business, and then I'll be back, safe and sound. If Joan calls, don't tell her where I am, and don't come looking for us. We'll contact you if we need help. Bye!" He finished and hung up.

His uncle politely ignored Sherlock's red face and burning eyes when he took back his cell phone.

"You better eat and rest now. We'll be up all night."

Sherlock junior tried for humor. "Alec the Axe. Stupid name."

"Which usually denotes a stupid man. Let's hope that works in our favor." His uncle said, before patting him awkwardly on the back.

Bloody Holmes brothers.

* * *

Sherlock tried not to stare at his nephew so much, but he couldn't help himself. His eyes picked up Mycroft's features just as often as they picked up unfamiliar features. His mind raced through all their acquaintances to see if he could pick out a name for his nephew's mother.

Sherlock at least knew that it would not be good timing to ask about his nephew's mother right now. Didn't stop him from trying to figure it out on his own.

His nephew was currently double-checking the location through a pair of binoculars while he double-checked their little arsenal.

"So, what's the plan?" He asked.

Sherlock mounted the sniper rifle. "We shoot them all, and get out."

His nephew stared hard at him. "Don't you want to get information? Figure out who's really behind all this?"

"No." Sherlock senior snapped. He could feel his nephew becoming nervous, so he gathered his thoughts to explain. "When I first started hunting down Moriarty's network, it was…fun. But now it's been three years, I am at the end of my patience, and I just want to go home. Kill everyone."

"You…you can't just do that." His nephew protested weakly. Sherlock's hackles rose.

"You can't just do that, Uncle Sherlock!" He mocked. Sherlock junior shrank back. "The justice system will prevail and we shouldn't get in its way" He stopped. "I tried it the legal way the first year. It took far too long and almost got me killed multiple times. I don't care anymore!"

"What's your Watson like?" Sherlock junior blurted out. Sherlock senior stopped ranting. "That's what you're doing all this for, right? Your Watson? I've seen his blog, but - "

"His damn blog." Sherlock muttered. But his nephew kept looking at him with expectant eyes, so he sighed and decided to humor him. Again.

"He's an army doctor; fought in Afghanistan; crack shot and very loyal. Addicted to adrenaline and feeling useful, so you can imagine how well we got along together." Sherlock said.

Sherlock junior hid his smile behind his hands.

"I never got to tell him how I felt." Sherlock senior admitted. His nephew almost dropped his binoculars.

"Now you understand my impatience?" He said, glaring at his nephew to try to distract him from his burning cheeks.

Sherlock junior let his wide grin show. Damn. "We need to collect some data first, but after you can do what you want. It's your crazy mission anyway. I'm just your lackey."

"Good you've realized that." Sherlock replied smoothly. His nephew went back to surveillance. Sherlock slipped him a handheld gun.

He only hoped it was enough. Despite his misgivings about Mycroft, his nephew had easily wormed his way into his uncle's affections and Sherlock was keen enough about sentiment now to realize he would dearly miss his nephew should anything happen to him.

Caring is not an advantage.

* * *

The Sherlocks were set up and raring to go, but no one had shown up yet. Sherlock junior noticed that his uncle was about to start shooting things regardless, so he racked his mind for a distraction.

"We should probably get code names." He said casually. His uncle gave him a look. "We can't both be Sherlock anyway. There has to be a way to differentiate us."

Sherlock the senior sighed. "London and New York."

"No! London doesn't just belong to you! And it's too obvious." His uncle ignored him.

"How about landmarks? You can be Ben, for the Big Ben." Sherlock junior said.

Newly-christened Ben thought for a moment. "You can be Jonny then."

Sherlock junior spluttered. "Why Jonny?!"

Sherlock-Ben hid a smile. "New York has the Big Apple does it not? Jonny Apples?"

"…Fine, though I don't like that name." Sherlock-Jonny grumbled.

Sherlock-Ben snickered, but then stopped at Sherlock-Jonny's frown.

"I…did not mean to offend you." Sherlock-Ben said slowly.

Sherlock-Jonny blinked, and his countenance lightened. "Don't worry, I know you were just teasing." He turned back to his binoculars.

"…Strange." Sherlock-Ben said aloud. "I didn't know I knew how to tease people."

The shocked look his nephew sent him spoke volumes.

"Alec's the big one, right?" Sherlock-Jonny hissed.

Sherlock-Ben nodded and tried to calm himself. He could take care of himself, and so could his nephew. Everything would be fine.

Sherlock-Jonny adjusted the volume on their listening devices and finally, something was happening.

"…I didn't sign up for any of this, you know! Supposed to be small but easy cash – now it's a manhunt for a dead guy!"

"I'm sorry sir, but Moriarty made it very clear what she wanted - "

Both Sherlocks tensed up at the sound of Moriarty's name. Sherlock-Jonny started sliding down the roof. Sherlock-Ben barely had time to grab him.

"What are you doing?!"

"Female Moriarty, that means my Moriarty is behind this - she won't hurt me, I can get information - "

"No!" Sherlock-Ben lunged, but it was too late. Off Sherlock-Jonny went to face the criminals head-on.

Sherlock-Jonny threw open the doors expecting two people, but was met with the sight of at least twenty armed and dangerous criminals.

"I need to speak with Moriarty." He announced.

"…You are a very stupid man." Alec the Axe replied.

"No." Sherlock-Jonny retorted. "Daring, actually. I know you - " He pointed at the messenger. " – have a direct line of communication to Moriarty, so go ahead. Call her."

Nobody moved.

"Do it!" Sherlock-Jonny yelled. The messenger jumped and started dialing.

The call connected just as Sherlock-Ben started shooting. Sherlock-Jonny dove to the ground and tried to make for the exit. The two men closest at the doors tried to grab him, so he pushed them back to the spray of bullets and down they went.

His uncle seemed quite preoccupied with trying to hit Alec, so Sherlock-Jonny pulled out his own gun to take down the men that were starting to aim where Sherlock-Ben was located on the roof.

It was horrible. Even with the adrenaline rushing through his veins, he couldn't block out the feeling of running through blood, the screaming of the criminals that were hit, the taste of death that was starting to choke the room –

A man grabbed Sherlock-Jonny by the neck and spun him around.

"I have him! I have Sherlock Holmes! Stop shooting or he's dead!" It was Alec. Sherlock-Jonny flailed and fought uselessly.

The bullets stopped. Everyone else had been hurt except for Alex and Sherlock-Jonny. He tried not to throw up.

"I want you to come down here and bring your weapons! Do it!" Alec screamed. To his horror, a few of Alec's men were getting up now, scratched but not crippled.

His uncle was walking into an ambush.

They heard the clatter of equipment being dismantled and then the thud of someone landing on the ground. After that, it was silent.

And then, a feeling Sherlock would never forget: the feeling of blood running down his neck from someone else.

With a gurgle, Alec fell to the ground. Sherlock turned to see his uncle, manic energy vibrating out of him, hands clutching a pistol and wicked, bloody knife.

Sherlock-Jonny turned and threw up on the ground just in time. His uncle took down two men over his nephew's head before he was disarmed. Sherlock pulled out two other knives from behind his back and stabbed his assailant in the stomach.

Sherlock-Jonny jumped up, shot a man behind him and a man coming up, but not before he had managed to slice his arm open. While he was recovering, another man that was half-dead shot him in the side.

Sherlock-Jonny fell to the ground in pain. After a minute, his uncle pulled him up.

"We have to go. Now." Sherlock-Ben said, gritting his teeth in pain. Multiple injuries were now covering him completely red with blood.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock-Jonny said. "She would never hurt me – I wanted to get you information; end your quest sooner - " He mumbled into his uncle's shoulder.

"We were both too reckless." Sherlock-Ben admitted. After a few minutes of walking, Sherlock-Jonny fumbled with a remote in his back pocket. The entire warehouse went up in flames.


	5. Chapter 4

What It Means To Be A Man

Chapter 4: Allies and Enemies

By the time it was noon both Watsons were about to start climbing the walls from restlessness. John and Joan had had a lovely breakfast, a lovely morning workout, had bonded over their mutual Holmesian experiences, had both satisfied their curiosity regarding Sherlock's books, had visited Sherlock's bees twice now, had bonded again –

Joan had had enough. "I'm going to go through Sherlock's bedroom again. See if there's something I missed."

"Is he really training you to be a detective yourself?" John asked.

"Well, yeah. Why, didn't your Sherlock do the same?"

John shook his head. "He tried to, but it always just ended up with him showing off. Lousy teacher." He said bitterly.

Joan didn't know how to answer that, so off she went. She opened the windows first to let in some light, and then started organizing the ridiculous mess that was left behind.

On a whim she decided to check his safety box, the one with all his personal records. There were some dental records, a birth certificate –

His passport. How could Sherlock leave the country without his passport?

Joan raced back out into the living room. It was time to call in the NYPD.

* * *

John had just returned from Starbucks with coffee when he found the brownstone filled with officers. A bulky, gray-haired man was just walking up to Joan.

"So they found no signs of a struggle. Seems more like Holmes got up and left with whoever had shown up last night. No sign of that package either. There was definitely someone else because we found a strand of hair that definitely isn't supposed to be there."

"Sherlock took mostly his case files and some clothes. But why would he say he left the country?" Joan wondered.

"Have I missed something? Should…I go get more coffee?" John asked, handing over Joan's order to her.

"Oh, that's right! Um, John, this is Captain Gregson. Captain, this is John, a friend. He's staying over for a few days, just in case."

Gregson raised an eyebrow. "And you couldn't call in your dear friends in the NYPD to keep you safe? You had to call in a civilian?"

John cut in. "I fought in Afghanistan, and I was also an army doctor."

Gregson was impressed. "Definitely not a civilian then. But you don't seem to be from here."

"No, I'm from London. Signed up for the army to pay for medical school." John replied.

"London, huh? One of Holmes' friends?" Gregson asked.

John grit his teeth. "Something like that."

Joan cut in. "How fast can you get me lab results?"

"I'll do my best, but no guarantees. I'm not even sure you should be on this case." Gregson argued.

"He's my partner, I'm staying on this case. Chances are, he might still be in New York, so I'll keep an eye out. Thank you."

Gregson threw his hands up. "Alright, Joan, just keep safe. "

Joan nodded. "I will."

* * *

The Watsons were cleaning up the takeaway with Bell called. "We've got the lab results. The DNA we found in Sherlock's bedroom was from a man named John Sigerson. He was admitted to the hospital a few months ago thanks to a mugging, but we can't find him now."

"Where did he live?" Joan asked. Detective Bell dutifully gave her the address and didn't ask any questions.

Joan turned to John. "Up for some breaking and entering?" John groaned.

John Sigerson's flat was ugly. Boring and ugly. It looked painfully like the flat John had lived in before 221B, and the one he currently occupied now.

John wondered if he'd ever cease to be amazed at how much hatred he could have for life without Sherlock. It was now tainting memories of the time before Sherlock as well.

"Doesn't look like anyone's been here in weeks." Joan mentioned.

John inspected the yard bins. "You wonder if anyone ever lived here." The top of the bin was thick with dust.

Joan finally unlocked the door and snuck them both in. Immediately the stale air assaulted their senses and Joan coughed. John shut the door and tried not to feel to claustrophobic.

Joan tried the light switches, but there seemed to be no electricity. "Water?"

John tried the faucet and shook his head. Then he noticed the fire grate. Ash and burnt wood? Someone had been here, but probably not legally.

He sifted through the dusty ash and found burnt paper. After a few more minutes, he found a page that wasn't completely burnt, though most of the page was scratched out anyway. The only legible letters were these:

_-oran_

_-York City._

John didn't have a clue about the message, but his heart stopped anyway. He would recognize that handwriting anywhere. But how could a dead man's handwriting end up here in New York City?

"John!" Joan cried out. He stuffed the half-burnt slip of paper into his pocket and went into the bedroom. On the bed was a messy blanket, bundled up in the corner, a pair of socks and a man's shirt, and a skull.

"That looks real." Joan whispered.

John's blood thudded in his ears as Joan called the NYPD again.

* * *

Joan didn't stick around this time for the investigation. Both Watsons were exhausted, and John couldn't wait for food and a good night's rest.

They managed a relatively enjoyable dinner, but John had a very uneasy night's sleep. Ridiculous nightmares of Sherlock jumping off the hospital to land in many different bloody pieces, leaving only his bloodstained skull in John's hands. The hound, the war, Moriarty, Sherlock, Moriarty, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock –

Both Watsons woke up to Joan's cell phone ringing like mad. Joan answered with a groan.

"Hello?"

"Last night, Holmes and Sigerson were admitted to the hospital. I'm coming over to pick you guys up in ten minutes." Captain Gregson said.

They could hardly dress fast enough. Neither of them needed coffee to be awake now.

* * *

"I don't understand," the young Indian doctor stuttered at them, "They were here a few hours ago. They had bullet wounds and other injuries, they can't have snuck off like this."

"It's not your fault." Joan said soothingly. John wasn't feeling quite so merciful at that point.

"We've got officers posted around the hospital in case they come back, but other than that, we've got no leads again." Detective Bell said.

Joan nodded, thanked everyone for their help, and pulled John out of the hospital.

"I just don't understand. I thought…well, he always left me out of his plans, but this…this is beyond everything." John gasped out.

Joan didn't reply.

They stopped at a café for some coffee and sandwiches, but neither of them had any appetite. They returned to the brownstone with very heavy hearts.

"Oh good Watson, you're finally back." Sherlock said. Joan froze in the doorway.

John peered in and saw a man with cropped hair, ridiculous tee shirt on, and bandages around his abdomen and arm, though they didn't hide the multitude of tattoos. He also sported a black eye and a ridiculous smile.

"I've already called Captain Gregson to call off the search for me. Sorry for all the trouble." He said cheerfully as he greeted Clyde.

Joan sank into a nearby chair and John was left without his fellow Watson as a shield. Sherlock junior then turned to John.

"Dr. John Watson, I finally get to meet you. It's an honor to meet the man who had stolen my uncle's heart." Sherlock said. Joan gasped in shock at Sherlock's words. John wanted to murder someone.

He stomped into the kitchen for a cold drink of water and let Joan handle this Sherlock.

When John returned to the sitting room with renewed purpose. At the sight of him, both Joan and Sherlock stopped their conversation.

"I just want to know one thing. Where is Sigerson?"

"I…don't know who you're talking about." Sherlock said. Joan tried to explain but John cut her off.

"Listen, I am at the end of my patience and I have had it with being manipulated and being left in the dark about all this and I am this close to taking it out on you, so just tell me – Who Was Sigerson?" John hissed.

"Me." The door opened.

It was Mycroft Holmes.


	6. Interludes

INTERLUDE: John Watson

John hated this; the waiting. He hated the numbness that always overtook him when he had someone he loved in the hospital, and all he could do was wait for them to wake up.

The last three times were all with Sherlock.

John didn't need Sherlock awake to know that the last three years had been brutal on him. He was dotted with new scars and old wounds, some still healing. He was now a walking skeleton, with sunken, lifeless eyes. His hair was so stressed it had started falling out and splitting.

John envied the relationship Joan had with her Sherlock. It was an equal relationship. John could rein in Sherlock too at times, but Joan's position in their relationship was much more powerful. Even with the recent event, Sherlock had only been gone two days from her. John's had no contact with Sherlock for weeks before. Joan also could pull Sherlock back from not just his bad habits or rudeness, but also from his self-destruction. John often tried, but it never took. Sherlock continued to do whatever he wanted.

A little voice in his head suggested that could he be being too hard on Sherlock? And yet here was a Holmes, not the Holmes brothers, but a Holmes who had utilized his intellect to its full potential as well as learning how to be respectful and polite. His Sherlock often claimed that social niceties were a waste of time, but John was beginning to wonder if there was a lack of general respect for other human beings. Mycroft had his own load of problems, but his son…his son managed, against all odds, to be happy and successful without cutting off half of himself and the rest of the world, with lots of help from a very influential and headstrong Watson. Help this Holmes accepted that he needed and welcomed with the respect it deserved.

Joan had shared what had happened with Moriarty. John knew he could never have done that, and he hadn't. Reichenbach had come and go and John was a helpless broken pawn in its wake.

He wondered bitterly if Joan wouldn't have done better if she had been in his place.

INTERLUDE: Mycroft Holmes

Mycroft was rarely wrong about anything, but here he was, incredibly wrong again. He had judged John Watson wrong; had underestimated him, but nothing compared to how wrong he had judged Joan Watson.

He thought her a simple-minded woman, just clever enough to finish medical school but probably too nervous or weak-of-heart to have a successful career. There were some things he couldn't explain, but nothing really challenged Mycroft's image of Joan as a typical Asian woman who wanted to be successful enough to brag to her family about her rich clients and how useful she is.

Joan Watson blew it all out of the water. She had seemed so polite and gentle on the phone and in emails, but in person it was an entirely different story. Her pretty-sounding voice belied piercing eyes and a very sharp intellect. Her unassuming frame hid a daily runner's discipline (something Mycroft sorely needed) and the determination that came with a thick steel core. Mycroft had assumed that she got along with his son because she listened and deferred to him, like all the other caretakers he had hired for his son.

He was wrong. He listened to her. His body language around her, the way he always looked to her for approval, the way he constantly checked in with her – Joan even managed something on a daily basis that Mycroft only managed once with his own son: controlling his self-destructive tendencies. For some reason Joan knew all the right buttons to push to get Sherlock to turn away from destroying himself, and to become someone constructive and helpful in society. More importantly, she had done it in a way that both Sherlock and her had become more self-fulfilled as a result, and much happier.

His brother and his Watson were united by their common need for adrenaline, but against the odds his son had found a kindred, guiding spirit in his Watson, and she neither let him take it for granted nor ever gave it stingingly. Joan Watson made him better, and consequently, Sherlock Holmes became the gateway to which Joan Watson could be incredible.

For all his world building and destroying and puppet-mastery, Mycroft felt rather small in comparison at the moment.

INTERLUDE: Joan and Sherlock

Joan and Sherlock sat side-by-side, both clutching a bowl of Cheerios and staring at their newly constructed wall of crazy. Joan's mind was already whirring in anticipation of a new case, but she had some distracting questions to ask first.

"I thought you didn't like Cheerios." She said.

Sherlock turned to her. "I am indifferent to them. However, they recently came out with a new advertisement that depicted a happy interracial family as their subjects. Positive representation."

Joan smiled. "I'm glad you pay more attention to that kind of thing now."

Sherlock smiled too. "Living with you has made me more conscious of how utterly wasteful oppression is on human potential. Now, I have a question for you: why aren't you more angry with me?"

Joan shrugged. "I guess it's because you're okay. I'd be much more angry if you hadn't texted every day, even if you did lie about being in the UK."

Sherlock nodded. "Good. I hoped that my assurances of my continued survival would be sufficient enough to incur your wrath. If it isn't, I would just like you to know that I would have told you everything but my uncle forbid it." Sherlock finished with his usual hand flourishes.

"Just so long as you never do that again." Joan said, sending him a glare for good measure.

Sherlock nodded. "Of course. You are indispensable to me Watson, and it would be pure stupidity if I ever tried to face any such foe without my partner."

"Good." Joan smiled. Sherlock slurped his milk noisily. "How did your talk with your father go?"

Sherlock got very quiet. "It went…well." Then he whispered, "He hugged me."

Joan raised her eyebrows and laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "And how did that make you feel?" She said gently.

"…Good?" Sherlock tried. "I shed a few tears as well."

Joan sighed. "I hope he does that again then. You two do have twenty four years of hugging to catch up on." She got up to leave, but then turned back.

"And this isn't a replacement for your dad, but maybe I can add on to the general hug quota anyway." Joan put down her bowl and pulled Sherlock into a firm and reassuring hug.

When Joan pulled back, she was rewarded with the warmest smile she had ever seen.


	7. Chapter 5

What It Means To Be A Man

Chapter 5: Mycroft Holmes

It was Mycroft Holmes, but John still couldn't understand it. Mycroft Holmes was Sigerson? It didn't make any sense.

Currently, Mycroft himself wasn't making any sense either. There was no perfect suit and clean umbrella with not-Anthea at his side. He came in with clothes torn and dried blood on his face, deathly pale, supported by two men whose clothes were in just as bad shape, though the people inside them were unharmed.

"Mr. Holmes." Joan said in shock. Sherlock seemed to have become permanently mute.

John switched off his brain, switched off his heart, and took Mycroft from his lackeys to help him to the sofa.

"Get me your first aid supplies." John ordered. Joan and Sherlock both ran off.

"Nice to see you again, Dr. Watson." Mycroft said weakly.

"Feeling's not mutual." John said bitterly.

Mycroft grabbed John's arm. "I will explain everything, I promise. Your help is most appreciated."

John shook him off gently. "I promise I won't abandon you, don't worry. Besides, it's not like I can do anything to the British Government." John said, attempting humor to lighten his unease at the sight of a humble Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft didn't answer back.

* * *

A head wound and some bruises and fatigue, nothing more. Mycroft would be fine. A few hours of rest and some solid food and care made the color return to his face. John stayed by Mycroft's side while Joan ran back and forth for various errands.

Sherlock junior hid in the back and fidgeted, refusing to meet his father's gaze.

"You promised explanations." John said the minute Mycroft had finished wiping his mouth after lunch.

"Ah…yes. Sherlock was with me the last few days, and I'm sorry to say both of us are worse off for it." Mycroft replied diplomatically.

"So you were Sigerson?" John asked.

Mycroft shook his head. "An agent of mine; it was his alias. I am sorry I had to fool you Ms. Watson, but it was imperative that everyone think Sherlock was out of the country for a while."

"And what was so important Mycroft, that you had to lie to all of us?" John asked.

Mycroft gave his trademark smile. "That's classified information John."

John had had enough. "I found this in Sigerson's flat." He pulled out the slip of paper bearing Sherlock senior's handwriting. "So now you get to tell me how a dead man's handwriting turned up there."

Mycroft stared John down for a few moments. "Old notes." He said simply.

John let his displeasure show on his face. Mycroft huffed in irritation. "Dr. Watson, I am confused as to why you're looking at me that way. It's your choice, you know. What do you want to believe? You have the same information I do."

"I want the truth, Mycroft!" John yelled.

"Well then John, which one are you able to accept?!" Mycroft roared back.

John escaped to the bathroom. Joan, after sending a look to Sherlock, went after him.

* * *

Mycroft let out a long breath as his son sat down beside him. "How is he?" He asked.

"Safe now. He's hiding out so he can heal. I've got people helping him." Sherlock junior replied.

"Thank you."

Now his son finally looked him in the eye. "What happened?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I don't know."

* * *

John's head was swimming. He had collapsed on the bathroom floor a few minutes ago, and no matter what he told himself he couldn't get up.

Knocking on the door. "John, it's me. Open up." Joan's voice cut through the chaos in his mind and he obeyed. She immediately pulled him into the guest bedroom and had him sit down on the bed.

"What are you thinking right now?" Joan asked when she had closed the bedroom door.

"That my Sherlock has been alive all these years and couldn't trust me enough to let me help him. That I needed him more than he needed me and I've just been thrown aside and it's stupid but I've just spent the last three years being a _fucking wreck_ - "

Joan grabbed his arms. "Stop it. This isn't your fault. No one knows the whole story yet, and thinking about it is just torturing yourself. You need to let go of your grief John."

John relaxed a fraction and Joan let him go. "I did some research, after you told me what you knew. And I know how hard it is when the memory of someone you love seems to rest on just your shoulders. But Sherlock's reputation won't change depending on what you do. You need to stop weighing yourself down John."

Tears rolled down John's cheeks and he hung his head further. Joan sat down beside him and gave him a hug.

"You're not a fool for falling in love with Sherlock Holmes. You're not pathetic for mourning him. You don't have to answer to anyone." She said.

But the last thing Joan said to him both broke and rebuilt his heart. "And you're not an idiot for believing in Sherlock Holmes. I believe in him too. Both of them."

* * *

The next morning, John could hardly believe how he felt. It was as if chains had been wrapped around his heart, dragging him down into the depths of his own despair. Now, all the world's burdens had been lifted from his shoulders. He couldn't believe the difference. John felt so light now that it seemed he could float away into the sky at any moment. Every step, every breath, was like a shot of adrenaline into his system. He was almost giddy.

John Watson was a new man.

John savored his morning shower, changed, and went downstairs to find everyone else already up. Sherlock was flipping pancakes, Joan was setting out drinks, eggs and toast, and Mycroft was already digging in.

"I'm glad to see you're better, John." Mycroft said as he walked in.

"I'm glad I'm better too, thanks to Joan." John replied. Joan and Sherlock junior beamed.

"Help yourself, John." Joan said, patting him gently as he walked by. He smiled back.

Breakfast was a silent affair, given that all were hungry from either stress or injuries or both. But when they were finished, Mycroft fetched his briefcase, they cleared the table, and business began.

Mycroft glanced at John, and John nodded. "First of all, Sherlock Holmes is alive." Mycroft announced.

John breathed in.

"He has been working for the last three years to take down Moriarty's network. However, recent developments have brought to light the fact that there have been two Moriarty's this whole time. The Moriarty John faced is dead, but the Moriarty Ms. Joan and my son faced is very much so alive."

"The last few nights I have been with my uncle." Sherlock junior announced. John breathed out. "We compared notes and I helped him with one of his missions before he sent me back here. He knows about both Moriarty's."

Sherlock then turned to John. "It's why I said you owned his heart, John. You're the reason he's fighting so hard."

"Thank you for telling me." John replied.

Mycroft shook his head. "There is still important information he doesn't know about yet, though he might be able to figure it out on his own. I no longer have an influence."

Everyone stared at Mycroft in horror. "The media have realized that Sherlock and I were brothers, and they have picked up on the idea that I could have helped him fake his death. His reputation is still a wreck, and now mine is becoming tatters thanks to this connection. I fled before the public started banging down my door."

Mycroft leaned forward. "I still have a few favors I can call in, but I am just as helpless as Sherlock is now. Sherlock is on his own."

John turned to Sherlock junior. "Can you contact him?" Sherlock shook his head.

"He took back my cell phone before we parted." Sherlock replied sadly.

"And I cannot risk contacting him in case we are overheard." Mycroft added.

John's face continued to pale, so Mycroft continued. "Don't worry about my brother. In fact, I would wager that we are in bigger danger than he is now. I have made many enemies in the last few years, and no one would care if I were killed right now. Sherlock will need someone to smooth over his return to living status, and I cannot do that or anything else if I am killed during this time."

"So what should we do?" Joan asked.

Mycroft shrugged. "I haven't the faintest, but we need a plan, and with two Watsons and two Holmes, we just might be able to come up with a good one."

Just then, Sherlock's phone rang. It was Captain Gregson. "Holmes, you and Joan need to come down to the station. There's something you have to see."

Sherlock and Joan inspected the painting in front of him while Mycroft and John stood behind. "I did some research; turns out it's a Turner painting. Worth millions of dollars." Captain Gregson explained.

"It's a fake." Sherlock announced. "It shouldn't have ochre paint, but it does." When everyone gave him funny looks, he explained. "Irene taught me that."

"Irene?" John asked with suspicion.

"Irene Adler," Joan explained, "was an alias used by Moriarty."

"So Moriarty then turned out to be my ex-girlfriend. Novel." Sherlock finished, and then ripped the canvas apart. Hidden inside was an iPhone, wrapped in a pink case.

Sherlock clicked it on and read the new text message. Three words, followed by an address.

_Let's have dinner._

* * *

It was a lovely restaurant that the three of them found themselves at, and all of them hated it. Sherlock's nervousness had translated into horrible fidgeting and noisiness. Joan had gone through her usual calming methods four times over now. John wasn't even bothering to pretend he wasn't tense anymore. Mycroft was experiencing, for the first time, a very strong desire to kill his own child.

Irene Adler arrived forty minutes late. Her black hair and makeup done in exactly the same way they were done when John Watson first met her. She had slinked into a dark red dress with a cut that went all the way down to her navel, front and back, along with very high heels. She left nothing to the imagination.

Joan, Mycroft, and John were horrified when they noticed Sherlock's unashamed staring.

"Sorry to keep you all waiting. It's wonderful to see you again John. Congratulations on finally realizing how utterly whipped you are in regards to _the Virgin._ And Mr. Holmes, it is nice to finally see the physical proof that you're not so icey as you pretend to be." Irene said with a smile as she slid into a chair at their table.

Sherlock reached out a hand to Irene. She stared blankly at him.

"You're a dominatrix, yes? I want your business card." He clarified.

She smiled wickedly. "I won't be in New York for very long though."

"That won't be a problem." Sherlock replied.

"I am not paying for it." Mycroft muttered. Irene laughed so hard tears came to her eyes.

"Sherlock saved me, you know. Your uncle, I mean." Irene said, after she had finished her starter. She addressed this sentence to John.

John hated how easily she riled him up. "And then what?"

"Then we parted ways and he never called again. I was so disappointed." Irene whined.

"Thought you said you were gay," John countered.

"Thought you said you were straight." Irene smiled wider.

Joan put a hand on John's shoulder. "Don't listen to her, she doesn't mean any of it."

Irene raised an eyebrow at her. "And what makes you so sure about that?" She asked Joan.

"She solved Moriarty. The Moriarty, I might add," Sherlock cut in. "Yes, hello, my turn to be clever. You know Moriarty, both Moriarty's in fact, but the one that got my uncle to kill himself is a fake, isn't he? She got the alias Irene Adler from you, and you owed her a favor. Ergo, you come here as her glorified messenger. My question is, what is Moriarty planning?"

After a few moments, Irene gave him a real smile. "You are clever too, aren't you? You're right, that Moriarty wasn't the real one. The real Moriarty is far better than the one that made such a scene in London; more refined, more sophisticated. Taught me everything I knew. But you're wrong - Moriarty chose me in particular as more than just the messenger. I'm also the message."

"The message?" John said.

Irene leaned forward stiffly. "Sherlock the son isn't a challenge, but the Holmes brothers are getting to be a nuisance. Moriarty is coming for all of you, and I suggest you roll over and let her win. Don't prolong the pain."

She turned to Sherlock. "Sorry about the date, junior. Tell Sherlock not to miss me too much." And then right in front of them, in a crowded New York restaurant, Irene Adler slumped onto her empty plate and died.

And a few blocks away, the houses on the street facing the brownstone all went up into flames.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes of London was currently bedridden in a disgusting abandoned flat, with only stale bread and meat as company. He had finished his last ration of vegetables yesterday, and he had run out of vitamin supplements ages ago.

His nephew had gotten away with a few scrapes, but he had gotten far worse. Three knife wounds, two bullet wounds, countless bruises – Sherlock longed for nothing more than the sweet taste of chemical oblivion, or the touch of John.

It hurt. Everything hurt. Inside hurt, outside hurt. Thinking about his past hurt, thinking about the present hurt, thinking about the future hurt. Sherlock was paralyzed by his body and his mind and it was driving him mad.

He heard shuffling outside his room and swallowed a groan. How did he not hear the person earlier? He tried to grab his gun but the room swam.

Fever. Perfect.

"Hey other Sherlock, it's just me." Alfredo's voice drifted in as the man himself walked into the room. "Lucky Sherlock of NYC texted me. You are in a bad shape. Come on, I got food and medicine for you."

"Jonny." He whispered back.

"What?" Alfredo asked.

"We decided he'd be Jonny, and I'd be Ben. Like the landmarks in our respective cities."

"I don't know a famous Jonny landmark in NYC." Alfredo was very confused at this point.

"Jonny Apples, it was the best we could come up with at the time." Sherlock-Ben snapped in frustration. God, his head hurt.

Alfredo noticed. "Alright, easy now. I'll keep bringing you food and checking up on you, just concentrate on not dying, all right?"

Sherlock nodded, swallowed the pills Alfredo handed him, and finally got his sweet oblivion.

Where was he? How long had he slept? Was he in any danger? Everything still hurt, and he was still incredibly exhausted. What had woken him up – ?

Footsteps. Multiple people.

_Please. _Sherlock prayed. _Please let John be safe. Please let me be safe. _

A cool hand touched his forehead before pulling off his covers. Sherlock was slipping back into unconsciousness again.

_Please God, let me live._

* * *

Joan, John, and Mycroft all sat in the brownstone, frozen in shock. Outside the sirens wailed in tandem with the people who had just lost loved ones in the explosion. Mycroft texted furiously. Joan flipped through the news. John watched the panic outside. Sherlock cuddled Clyde.

No one had answers.

A crack snapped them all out of their stupor. They looked up to see a red-faced Mycroft. His cell phone lay across the room, having been thrown in a fury.

Mycroft whirled around to face Sherlock. "Where is your uncle?"

"I don't know - "

Mycroft snatched Clyde out of his son's hands. "Like hell you don't. If you're honestly that stupid - "

Sherlock held up his hands to try to placate his father. "Even if I did know, it's not safe to bring him here - "

"It's not safe anywhere, but better that he's with us than in some infested hellhole somewhere!" Mycroft yelled back.

"He should be with people that care about him, Sherlock." Joan added.

Sherlock junior turned to John. "Please." John begged quietly. Sherlock junior sighed and grabbed his coat.

It hadn't taken too much time before Joan and procured a police vehicle to transport Sherlock senior with. The ride to the flat was silent. Mycroft was annoyed again that his brother had been so close, and was texting Anthea again. Sherlock junior was concentrating on ignoring his dad's obvious displeasure. Joan kept a look out for suspicious activity.

John could barely concentrate on keeping himself from jumping out the car and running the rest of the way himself.

Sherlock drove into a parking garage and parked the car. "We're walking the rest of the way there." He said as he locked the doors.

The parking garage had a back entrance into a restaurant, so through the restaurant they went before going down another flight of stairs to a darkened hallway. When they reemerged to the outside, it was to an alleyway that had been boxed in on all sides by bad city planning.

"No one uses this door anymore." Sherlock said as he picked the lock. With trepidation, they entered Sherlock senior's safehouse.

"Ben, are you in here?" Sherlock junior called out when they had closed the doors. John and Joan both produced flashlights from their pockets. Mycroft stayed in the dark.

While the others searched the rooms, John let his instincts take over. Which room would be the safest? Farthest away from any entrances, probably not even a window, preferably somewhere that people would overlook –

John made a beeline for the underground attic. The door was bolted shut but John forced the rusty door open anyway. After three years, he finally got to see the man he loved.

It was a wretched sight. Dirty, bloody bandages and tissues littered the ground. Three blankets were twisted on the bed, half on Sherlock and half on the ground. One had landed on the ground, covering the food supplies from whoever Sherlock junior had sent to help his uncle. Sherlock's hair was blond and long now, but the color was almost undistinguishable due to the grime. John could see dirty underwear and clothes lying in a corner by the closet, next to black bags of what John assumed were Sherlock's armory.

"Oh Sherlock," John whispered brokenly. Sherlock's eyelids were fluttering now, fighting against his own exhaustion. John laid a hand on his forehead to try to still him before ripping the disgusting blankets off.

Tenderly and as securely as possible, John scooped up Sherlock into his arms and carried his one treasure in the world out.

* * *

There was no other word for it: Mycroft was hovering. John was finishing up his inspection and preliminary care of Sherlock while Joan and Sherlock junior fetched supplies. Mycroft got water once, but other than that he stayed in the background and hovered.

John took off his gloves and tucked Sherlock back into bed. "That's the best I can do for now. We'll have to wait until he wakes up to see how bad the pain is."

Joan pulled Sherlock out of the room. "Time for your check-up." She dutifully ignored his weak protests.

John slumped into a chair and reached out to hold Sherlock's hand. Mycroft walked up then, verbally silent while his body language screamed worry.

John sighed and took pity on him for once. "I'll take care of this Sherlock. Maybe you should stop avoiding your other Sherlock, hmm? Actually spend some quality time with your own son, hmmm?"

Mycroft looked blankly at John. "Go on." John said.

Like a man walking to his execution, Mycroft went.

* * *

Sherlock junior huffed with impatience as he fiddled with his shirt. But the person who came back to take care of him wasn't Joan, but his father.

Sherlock immediately wanted to run away, bullet wounds be damned. "Where's Watson?" He asked.

His father gave him a look. "I assure you I am more than capable of dressing and caring for wounds." He replied stiffly.

Sherlock fell silent. His father saw him once a year, so Sherlock no longer could count the number of times he had seen his father on his fingers and toes, but he could count the number of times they actually had a conversation on one hand.

This would be their fourth meaningful conversation. Sherlock wondered which Watson made him do it. (He supposed this meant he had a horrible relationship with his father, but then again, he knew that already, and he had turned out just fine anyway.)

"…How have you been?" Mycroft finally asked.

Sherlock panicked. "Well, I'm better now with cases from the NYPD even if sometimes they're terribly predictable. Training Watson to be a detective keeps me from getting bored. Watson keeps making me go to meetings even though I don't need to anymore, they're ridiculous, but the sobriety chips are quite amusing, I use them to prank people - "

"Don't ramble, Sherlock." Mycroft scolded.

Sherlock fell silent. "Sorry," he whispered, and his eyes dropped to the floor again. Mycroft mentally kicked himself.

"I'm glad you're happier and that you're no longer dependent on heroin." He finally said.

"Oh I'm sober, but I'll always be an addict." Sherlock said almost cheerfully. Mycroft's heart sank further.

"Father?" Sherlock finally asked. Mycroft was suddenly hit with faint memories of a younger Sherlock. He was horrified when he realized he has far more memories of his brother's younger days than his own son's.

"What is it Sherlock?" Mycroft breathed out. He had never felt so old.

"Are you really ever going to get your position back? It's just, I know your work makes you happy, like how cases make Uncle and I happy, and - "

"I'm sure when this is all over, I will be able to get back my influence and clout, yes." Mycroft said. He was bewildered for a moment when his son smiled bigger but his eyes looked sadder.

Oh.

"I…was foolish in my younger days, and I regret it. I promise…I'll spend more time with you. And I promise not to cancel on you."

Sherlock nodded but the sadness on his face just grew. Sherlock didn't believe him. Mycroft pulled his son into a hug.

_Please God, don't let me hurt my son anymore._

* * *

Mycroft, Joan, and Sherlock junior had all gone to bed but John still stayed vigil at Sherlock senior's side. He checked vitals, tried to make him more comfortable when the fever hit, and redressed wounds when they got too messy.

Finally John collapsed a few hours before dawn in his chair, and awoke to a weak pulling on his hands. John opened his eyes and almost fell out of his chair. He was met with the sight of Sherlock's wide-open eyes slowly filling with tears and Sherlock was overwhelmed by the sentiment he had so often denied himself.

John fell to his knees and reached out with both hands to cradle him. "Shhh Sherlock, it's alright, I'm here. We're all safe. Rest, don't worry - "

Sherlock coughed weakly and John gently fed him some water. Mycroft came in just then, having secretly waited outside the room since he had woken up hours ago.

"Mycroft, you watch him, I'm going to go get some food." John said, and left the Holmes brothers alone.

Sherlock senior stared hard at his brother. "No, absolutely not. You are useless right now anyway."

Sherlock stared again. "Dr. Watson would kill me, as well as my son. He's starting to look up to you."

Sherlock huffed and turned away. "I'll need your help soon, so your main priority is to return to full health as soon as you can. I will trap you in this room myself if I have to." Mycroft continued.

Sherlock turned back to look at his brother with furrowed brows. "Don't be so surprised. I am starting to realize that there may be more important priorities than taking down Moriarty." Mycroft replied as emotionlessly as possible.

With that last message, Mycroft strode out of the room. Sherlock sighed and let himself go back to sleep.


	8. Chapter 6

What It Means To Be A Man

Chapter 6: The Game Is Afoot

Sherlock junior woke to the pink phone's ringing. He clicked it on and a text message appeared.

_Hansel and Gretal have gone away and I am the big bad witch._

He raced to Joan's bedroom. Ten minutes later, it was decided that Joan and Sherlock would go to the station to ask for Captain Gregson's help while John and Mycroft stayed behind in the brownstone with Sherlock senior.

Mycroft had considered going with his son but John quickly shot that down by reminding him of potential assassination attempts. The brownstone was secure, but outside wasn't. And if the need came, John could easily protect both Holmes brothers.

Joan and Sherlock arrived at a very busy station. Officers risked their coffee cups for speed as they dashed to and fro with panicked looks on their faces.

"Oh good, you're here." Gregson said when he spotted them. He pulled them into his office and shut the door.

Sherlock started talking before anyone else could get a word in. "We have reason to believe that Moriarty is back and playing a much more dangerous game this time. Does this clue connect to anything recent?"

Sherlock handed Gregson the phone, and he glanced at it before opening a file on his desk and beckoning them forward.

"Two Mexican kids, a 6 year old boy and a 5 year old girl, were taken last night."

"What time did the parents say they disappeared?" Sherlock asked.

Gregson sighed, and slumped into his chair. "Usually we wouldn't get cases like this, because both the parents are illegal immigrants. But this time, someone else reported it, because the two kids? Their father is kinda high up in a local gang. Last night, the father shot up another gang's territory because he thought they took it. We've got 6 dead bodies as a result."

"Can we talk to the parents?" Joan asked.

"Nope. Everyone's split, including the parents. We can't track them down." Gregson replied.

"Is there anyone else that would know the kids' routines? Neighbors? Friends?" Joan continued.

Sherlock jumped in. "Is there a teacher we could ask?"

Gregson started dialing numbers. Sherlock and Joan sat down to wait.

Her name was Sandra Livingston, and she had been the kids' babysitters. She was Mexican and spoke fluent Spanish, but lived half and hour away from the where the kids lived. Did she know of the parents? No, the kids would take the bus home. Did she notice anything weird?

"One day," Sandra said, "One man did come pick them up. A baker that lived on their street. The kids recognized him; the man said he often babysat for them. He signed the kids out and I let them go when Jessica and Sam pushed me to. And when they came back the next day and everything was fine, I thought nothing of it. But perhaps this baker might know more."

Sandra shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry I can't be more help. Please find them." She whispered.

Joan leaned forward. "We will. Do you have a name or an address?"

"A baker and Hansel and Gretal. One would think this case is almost too easy." Sherlock said, frowning with suspicion.

"Don't be so sure," Gregson said as he walked Joan and Sherlock back into the station. "We brought him in, but he doesn't seem to notice anything."

Joan's heart sank. In the interrogation room sat Timothy Rodriguez, just turned eighteen but with the baby face of a fourteen year old. Joan's continued scrutinizing of his record turned up nothing at all – it was spotless.

Sherlock went in anyway. "Mr. Rodriguez, do you know anything about what might have happened to Jessica and Sam Vargas? They disappeared two days ago, and then yesterday their parents shot up a street a few blocks away."

Timothy started to panic. "I don't know anything!" He said with a natural American accent. "The parents just paid me twice to watch the kids for them, but that was it! I haven't heard anything about any of this until now! Do you know where they are?"

"We have no idea, which means you have to give us a next lead. Anyone else the children might have come in contact with?"

Timothy shook his head. "Maybe you could try the neighbors? I know they took the bus home a lot, so the bus drivers?"

Sherlock dropped his head. "Thank you Mr. Vargas, you may go."

Six neighbors and three bus drivers later and no clues. Sherlock was about to pull out his own hair. Joan gave him a newspaper instead and set him loose on all the flies buzzing around in the station. She ignored all the officers that were getting annoyed at Sherlock's enthusiasm and called the house.

It was Mycroft who answered. "Hello?"

"Hi Mycroft, how is everything?" Joan asked as cheerfully as he could.

Mycroft sighed. "Case not going well then. I can hear the exhaustion. John and I have been switching off every few hours so we both can get some rest. It's John's turn right now."

Joan was relieved at the thought of the other Watson finally getting some rest. "How's your brother?" She added.

"John woke him up shortly after you two left to give him medicine but he's been unconscious other than that." Mycroft answered.

"Well, he does have a lot of healing to do. Don't worry if he just sleeps through a few days." Joan said.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I know Ms. Joan, thank you for your medical expertise."

"Just trying to reassure you. Call us if you need anything." Joan replied and hung up before she heard Mycroft's reply.

"Joan, we're going to go search the house for clues." Sherlock yelled out. Joan mourned momentarily the loss of a good night's sleep and quickly followed.

Joan fought to stay awake while she searched the children's home for any clues. A long day of investigation and questioning had left her mind stretched to its limit, and she was quite ready to let Moriarty do whatever she wanted at this point, barring killing anybody.

Sherlock had disappeared twenty minutes ago and he still hadn't returned. Joan idly grabbed a few more books to flip through and shake to see if there were any hidden clues inside.

"WATSON!" Sherlock cried out. Joan's ears led her into the garage where Sherlock had lost his initial exhaustion and was now bouncing off the walls in excitement.

"Cars?" Joan asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "There are two cars here. Now why would a family that lived like this have two luxury cars?"

Joan started walking forward. "That is weird."

Sherlock grinned. "It's money laundering Watson, and I've found the company where they got the cars."

Joan was handed a beat-up business card. On it was written only two lines of text: a phone number, and the name "Janus Cars, Car Rental Service."

Joan handed it back to Sherlock. "I would wager," Sherlock said, "that this Janus Cars is not just a car rental service."

"So you want me to look for rental cars from this Janus Cars company? I can't get a search warrant based on that. Did you at least find some drugs or something?" Gregson asked.

"No," Sherlock answered as he and Joan rode back to the station in a cab, "and I had anticipated that you would not be able to get search warrants. However, I would like you to bring all our witnesses back so we can question them again."

"That is a huge waste of energy Holmes. I can't just bring them back anytime you want to ask them about whatever new weird thing you've found." Gregson argued.

"Can you get just the baker then?" Sherlock continued.

Gregson was unconvinced. "Holmes, I can't just - "

"Captain Gregson, Sherlock and I are going to investigate Janus Cars first. If we find anything, we'll let you know, alright?"

"Fine. Thank God for Joan Watson." Gregson muttered as he hung up.

"Why do we need to investigate Janus Cars? All we have to do is find which of the people we questioned today has a connection to this company, and we'll know who did all this." Sherlock said indignantly.

"No, because that doesn't make sense. What if Janus Cars is just a regular rental car service?" Joan argued.

"But its not!" Sherlock countered.

Joan wasn't having it. "How do you know?"

"Because the other Sherlock told me!"

Joan folded her arms. "You didn't think of telling me this?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I thought John told you everything. About Moriarty."

Joan sighed. "He told me some things, but he's struggling with grief Sherlock; he's not the best source of information right now. Did you tell your uncle everything?"

"I tried not to," Sherlock admitted, "but he got it all out of me. My prior relationship with 'Irene Adler,' my later confrontation with Moriarty…he even took my notes on all the cases I had worked since coming to New York."

"I knew there were two Moriartys, and that he was the one who made Sherlock commit suicide, but I didn't know anything else." Joan admitted.

"That Moriarty was James Moriarty, and he was mainly located in London. He managed quite a lot of damage to my father and managed quite a bit of smuggling into the UK, though apparently my uncle did manage to foil a lot of his plans. Then Moriarty stole the crown jewels before framing my uncle as some sort of fraud by masking himself as a penniless actor who my uncle hired to be Moriarty. Then Moriarty threatened to kill his friends if he didn't kill himself. Moriarty shot himself in the head and Sherlock jumped."

Joan's head was dizzy with all the new information. "I did some research on your uncle, but I never found any of this stuff."

Sherlock shrugged. "Moriarty must've had his men hide information on him so no one could unravel his plot later on."

"Then, who's the real Moriarty? Or are there two people who use the same name and have the same profession?" Joan asked.

Sherlock couldn't answer.

* * *

Joan and Sherlock returned to the brownstone just to catch a bit more sleep before showering and changing for the next day. Janus Cars awaited them.

They checked in with John and the Holmes brothers before they left. Evidently Sherlock had been awake for at least an hour before he went back to sleep and John had finally managed a proper night's rest. Things seemed to be looking up for Mycroft as well, since he was glued to his cell phone again.

Sherlock exchanged a few words with his father before skipping out the door. Joan grabbed their brown bag lunches and locked the door behind her.

If they had known what was going to happen, they would never have left.

Janus Cars was a tiny little place and was owned by a very large man with very large jewelry. He proudly displayed his gold necklaces and fat, glistening gold rings. Joan wanted to leave immediately.

"Hi," Sherlock said, adopting an American accent, "my car's getting work done right now and a friend recommended me this place. Said it was great at making my problems disappear." He finished enigmatically.

The man stared quietly at him, before letting a tiny smile appear. "We can cover a lot of problems, Mister - "

"Call me Johnny." Sherlock replied.

"Johnny, what do you need?" The man said quietly. His nametag said David.

"Money for an elopement and new life." Sherlock said bluntly. He then jerked his thumb at Joan and put on a leer. "We want to get married as soon as we can."

David gave Joan a bigger leer. Joan just barely managed a polite smile back. "I can see why. Anything particular you have in mind? Who's the friend that recommended you."

"The Vargas family." Sherlock replied. Joan's blood turned cold.

Dave leaned back and sighed. "That is a very expensive choice…complicated. You'll have to pay extra."

Sherlock smiled blandly. "Why do you need extra?"

"We need outside help for this sort of thing." David admitted.

Sherlock didn't miss a beat. "Who? I'm not going to pay for some low-rate - "

David stopped him. "Listen, this guy, he's good. You won't find better help anywhere."

"Who is he?" Sherlock forced out.

"I can't tell you, but I promise you…you'll have nothing to complain about, alright?" David said tensely.

"Is it Moriarty?" Sherlock asked, switching back to his normal accent. David paled and Joan started looking for exits.

"If it is Moriarty, send a message for me. Write it down, write it down." Sherlock ordered. David pulled out a paper and started writing.

Sherlock put his hands on the desk. "I am coming for you, and you won't get away with it this time." He said.

Then both of them whirled out of Janus Cars before David could react.

"That was incredibly stupid!" Joan hissed at him as they ran.

Sherlock didn't even blink. "If you act like you belong there, most people will give up the information you need. Besides, I was desperate." Sherlock admitted.

Before Joan could berate him some more, Sherlock's cell phone rang.

"Captain Gregson, what can I do for you?" He asked.

"You guys need to get down her as soon as you can. It's your father." Gregson said darkly.

* * *

It had all happened so fast. Mycroft had stepped out of the brownstone to get a breath of fresh air and he was hit with two bullets before he could even cry out. John had been asleep, but immediately awoke at the sound of the gunshots and ran to the door.

Mycroft dodged the rest of the bullets to collapse inside the brownstone. John slammed the door shut and pulled him into the living room.

"John," Sherlock senior was there, weakly leaning on an office chair, having followed John out of the room at the sound of the gunshots. "I'll call the police." He said with a face dotted with sweat and lined with determination.

John controlled his own relief at seeing Sherlock up and about, and nodded. "I'll take care of your brother."

Joan and Sherlock junior had raced into the hospital where both Mycroft and Sherlock had been wrangled into once the paramedics glimpsed Sherlock's condition. Captain Gregson made a few calls and got them into a private room so John and a few police officers could stand guard over them.

"Two Holmes down, one left." Sherlock junior said grimly once they had reached his father. The bullets had pierced his collarbone and went through his left side, shattering several ribs. The injuries hadn't been substantial enough that he needed emergency surgery, but Mycroft was in danger of losing a lot of blood.

While Sherlock junior donated some blood for his father, Joan pulled Captain Gregson aside and gave him their findings.

"So we got nothing?" Gregson asked, rubbing his eyes.

Joan turned to look at Sherlock junior, lying side by side beside his uncle and namesake. "We've both been really thrown by the last few days. Sherlock and I have both had something on the tips of our tongues, but we can't quite figure it out yet."

Gregson patted Joan on the back. "I'm going to call the boys to get us some food, and then we're going to leave you guys alone. Maybe do some quiet thinking then, alright? Or at least get some sleep."

Joan thanked him gratefully.

* * *

Sherlock junior was of two minds about hospitals. They were never associated with happy memories for him; a few broken bones, rehabilitation…and now his uncle and his father lay passed out in hospital beds. He understood the value of being together and the relief of mind that provided, but if Moriarty or anyone wanted to bomb the hospital, the Holmes line would end in seconds.

It wasn't elegant. That's what was turning all of his thoughts and theories about all this into unforgiving knots. Moriarty killed, but she never bombed before. It was inelegant. It was ugly.

Sherlock growled under his breath. What had Janus meant? Janus was a Greek god, known to give people different choices, different paths. He tugged the business card out of his pocket. The logo was a JC inscribed on a key.

Moriarty was leaving him choices, he could tell. Panic and try to hide away from the world with his family, and Moriarty would hunt them all down within hours. But playing her game might keep them alive for a bit longer. Moriarty wanted Sherlock to play. So what on earth did she want him to get?

The phone number on the card struck him as weird though. 522-7897…Sherlock ran through some anagrams with the available letters and got this: JCC, RSVP.

The Joseph Carlton Charity. Joseph Carlton was a filthy rich man who had made billions as a cutthroat CEO of a large bank, and now to ease his own guilt, put on lavish parties and fundraisers under a charity he named after himself. Everyone knew its guest lists were always filled with the richest and most despicable of people Carlton to get.

It just might be where Moriarty wanted them to go.

Sherlock saw Joan walking towards him and he sat up after the doctor cleaned him up. "I think I know where Moriarty wants us to go next."

"That's what I'm worried about Sherlock," Joan admitted, "it feels like she's just making us run around in mazes."

Sherlock ignored her comment. "We need to get an invitation for the Joseph Carlton Charity fundraiser tomorrow night. Janus Cars? The phone number? Look, Janus was the god of choices, he – he would give you a key to whatever path you chose to walk. This phone number on a cell phone keyboard spells JCC, RSVP. We need to go."

Joan started protesting. "I don't want to run around on some wild goose chase! We need to be there with your family – you need to be there with your family!"

Sherlock hung his head. "I know that, but if we don't play her game, any moment Moriarty could bomb the hospital and kill us all. But she'll keep us alive if we play a bit longer. My father and my uncle aren't well enough yet, we need to give them time. Do you understand?"

"…I don't like it, but I understand." Joan replied.

"Good." Sherlock said. Just then Joan's cell phone alerted her to a text message. She opened it up, looked at it for a few seconds, and then handed it to Sherlock without a word.

_Check your mail, _it said. The attached picture was a screenshot of an invitation to a certain fundraiser.

The message couldn't be clearer: Moriarty was watching.

* * *

When John awoke, he was of two minds. Firstly, half of him wanted to sink back into this deliciously soft pillow and deliciously soft sheets and mattress and go back to sleep, while the other half of him wanted to know why everything smelled like a hospital bed.

"Good morning, John." Sherlock senior said. John sat up.

Two trays of food had appeared beside their beds. To John's embarrassment, he had also been given a bed and hospital food. Sherlock stirred his tea and glanced at his waiting sandwich with some disgust, though he tried to hide it with a polite blank face.

Sherlock was definitely trying to be on his best behavior. "You should eat as well John." He said gently.

John merely raised his eyebrows at him. Sherlock put down his teacup and tried not to fidget.

"My bruises are healing nicely and the stitches have held. The danger is over." Sherlock reported.

John scoffed. "Infection." He replied.

"I am in a hospital and this is the 21st Century. It is highly unlikely. Why aren't you mad at me?" Sherlock asked.

John got up and slid back into his well-worn chair besides Sherlock. Neither of them reached out to link hands. "Too tired to be angry."

Sherlock was silent after that and John could see his mind racing to figure out what to say. "You have to understand, John - "

"Oh God - no, we're not having this conversation now - " John said, jumping out of his chair.

"John, please. Let me tell you what happened." Sherlock begged as he shot an arm forward to snag John's sleeve. John walked back to Sherlock's side and sat back down.

Sherlock let go.

"I…Moriarty threatened to shoot you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade if I did not kill myself. I threatened to force him to call off his snipers but then he forced a gun inside his own mouth and pulled the trigger. I have spent the last few years ruthlessly hunting down criminals so that no one can ever threaten me like that again."

"He said he would burn my heart, and he almost did. There were times that I -, if Moriarty hadn't threatened you, I would have let the whole world burn instead. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, my brother, Molly…I would have let them all die if you hadn't been in danger."

"Sherlock…" John whispered.

"But I don't love you." John's blood turned cold. "I…I have seen so much these three years, I have understood so much more these three years…I see how people in love are, I've seen how they act for each other, how they take care of each other, I – I treat you horribly, John. I treat everyone horribly. I don't want love John, and you must understand that."

John sat there blankly, hearing only his own breathing and seeing only Sherlock's face as he waited for John's response before realizing John didn't have one. Slowly Sherlock sat back down into the mattress but kept his eyes glued to John.

Humiliation. That's what John was feeling. He knew, he knew this would happen, but everyone had to make their bloody assumptions and now John looked like an ass, didn't he? Bad enough he always felt stupid around Sherlock Holmes, now everyone would look at John with pitiful eyes and it would _haunt him – _

_I don't want love John. _

…_If Moriarty hadn't threatened you, I would have let the whole world burn instead. I would have let them all die if you hadn't been in danger. _

John blinked, and started to breathe again. Sherlock noticed and sat back up.

"John?" He queried.

Sherlock was in love with John, because John had seen it, just like everyone else, the manic energy that would overtake the man every time John was in danger. Because John was there, and he wasn't blind, he felt it – the heat Sherlock would send him, the close proximity, the clinging, the reaching out - It was there, all there, and they could all see it.

Maybe it wasn't that John was wrong. Maybe Sherlock was wrong.

"What is it John?" Sherlock was suspicious now.

John gave him a smile. "Nothing Sherlock." He got up to go to the bathroom.

"If you think I just haven't realized it yet, you're wrong! Don't string yourself along! I'm not in love with you!" Sherlock yelled out in frustration.

John turned around. "If you remove the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth - "

Sherlock's hackles were raised now. "Don't you dare - "

"Don't twist facts to suit theories!" John added.

"You're just throwing my words back at me!" Sherlock said as he threw his hands up.

John marched forward. "It's because you should listen to them Sherlock. You just told me you would have let everyone else die if Moriarty hadn't put me in danger as well. If was just a friend, you would have taken the risks. I'm a soldier; I would know how to defend myself. A few texts, that's all it would have taken to level the playing field. Instead you faked your death and disappeared for three years on some manic vigilante spree – Sherlock, for once, you might be wrong. And I might be right."

John had pushed Sherlock back down into his bed now. He towered over Sherlock, who's face had gone from angry to a deer in the headlights look, as if he vaguely recognized this situation but was baffled as to why it was happening to him.

"Wh…?" Sherlock said, breathing out. John could feel his breath on his own lips.

"It's called sexual tension." John whispered back. Sherlock tensed and John rubbed Sherlock's arms twice, up and down, up and down.

"John…" Sherlock whispered fervently, and grabbed John's arms to pull him down for a kiss.

Finally, John thought, and leaned forward to envelop Sherlock in his arms.

"Not in front of me, please." Mycroft groaned from the opposite bed.

* * *

Joan smoothed out her black dress one last time. Sherlock junior had convinced her to leave her hair down as well as wearing her diamond jewelry out tonight. Modest, but it would still make its statement.

Sherlock walked out of his room with an impeccably tailored and obviously incredibly expensive suit, paired with diamond cufflinks and platinum tie clip.

"Nice cufflinks." Joan remarked.

Sherlock hesitated. "I thought they were a personalized gift from my father, but now I know it was meant for my uncle. One of the cases that made him famous." He answered and reached out his arms to let her see them.

Engraved very clearly on them were the initials S.H.

"Well, at least I can put them to good use. Apparently my uncle owns nothing but button cuff shirts." Sherlock said casually. Joan secretly made a note to get Sherlock something personalized just for him.

"Shall we, Ms. Watson?" Sherlock said. Joan linked arms with them and they strode off into the night. The invitation burned holes in Sherlock's pocket.

"It's garish and disgusting. Perfect for Joseph Carlton." Sherlock grimaced. The restaurant was huge, and decorated with large mirrors and larger chandeliers. Ridiculously good-looking waiters and waitresses circled around the tables that too glistened with gold.

"I feel underdressed." Joan admitted.

Sherlock scoffed. "You just don't look like a joke. Now what do you make of that man there?" He said, turning to face behind her to disguise his movements.

Joan squinted. "I can't make out anyone in this crowd."

"The man staring at us. You might find him quite familiar." Sherlock said.

Joan looked up for a moment, before resuming her scan of the room. She let her instincts lead and – there! A dark haired man in a beautiful suit and dark, dark eyes was staring at her four tables down.

"Oh God." Joan said. It was London Sherlock's Moriarty. How had he survived?

Before Joan could ask her partner what to do, he had pulled her up to make a beeline towards Moriarty. He dropped her in the seat beside Moriarty before taking the other seat, sandwiching the man in between.

"Rich Brook. I'm a fan of your work." Sherlock said with a smile.

Moriarty blinked at him, and then gave them both a darling smile. "Not Rich Brook anymore." He said slowly.

"Who are you then?" Joan cut in rudely.

Moriarty turned to her, and then turned up his eyes at her shyly with a coy little smile to match. "Just Jim," He said. "Because I killed Moriarty." He made a gun shape with his hand and giggled when he put his finger to his head.

Just Jim sighed and sat back in his chair. "Shot myself in the head, you know. I used to be a lonely and desperate man. Brilliant, but oh, it was horrible. And now I've finally silenced that part of me. All my demons, all that made me Moriarty, is gone. All gone! I remember everything, especially the pain, but it was worth it. All of it."

"I pity you, you know." Jim Moriarty said to Sherlock junior. "You've got demons too, haven't you? Poor, poor Sherlock. All those demons. Never ever quiet in there. It's enough to drive a man mad!" Moriarty said with another giggle.

Joan and Sherlock were stunned.

"I would have done anything," Jim whispered, "anything to become normal. And now I have. It's wonderful. If it hadn't been a miracle, I'd recommend it to you!" Jim laughed again. Sherlock's face just grew paler.

Jim sat up straight with a start. "Oh, I almost forgot. The key. Here." He pulled out an automatic car key remote and handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock took it. "Who is Moriarty then?" He asked. Joan could see the faint hope in his eyes, the faint and tiny hope that perhaps Irene Adler was real, and that she hadn't manipulated him so cruelly. A hope that still lasted even now.

Jim took a sip of his drink. "I was Moriarty for only a few months. Now, who knows!" Then he patted them both on the back. "You better go let those kids out. They're very scared in there."

Joan breathed out. "Moriarty even brought the car here for you all." Joan and Sherlock ran out fast as they could.

They had left their jackets behind but they didn't care. Sherlock fumbled with his flashlight while Joan just started clicking the unlock button constantly. Sherlock started yelling in Spanish for the kids.

Joan handed the car keys to Sherlock and dialed Gregson's number. Joan snatched the heels off her feet and started running after Sherlock.

"Watson, I found it!" Sherlock cried out. Joan heard the successful beep beep of the car door unlocking.

Wait, why was it still beeping? "Sherlock, get away from there!" But Sherlock had rushed forward even faster now, slamming the van doors open as he yelled and frantically grabbed the two children hidden in there.

"Sherlock!" Joan screamed. 20 seconds later, Sherlock and the two children flew through the air from the force of the exploding van.

* * *

"The kids are fine, thanks to you." Joan said. Captain Gregson had only gotten there in time to whisk Sherlock and the children to the hospital. The children were now under police protective custody but Sherlock was stuck in the hospital now as well.

"We are all being moved into a six bed room, so that you can stay with us, Watson." Sherlock said, still sleepy from the drugs.

Joan's heart was hammering away in her chest. The children were saved, but no one was caught. Gregson and the NYPD had combed through the guests for Jim Moriarty, but he hadn't even been on the guest list. Besides Joan and Sherlock, all the guests were accounted for. The search had been in vain.

It was definitely a wild goose chase now, and Joan had never been more afraid. What if Moriarty was purposefully crippling the Holmes to keep them out of the action and their guards down? Moriarty knew that where the Holmes go, the Watsons follow.

What on earth was Moriarty planning, and how far would she go to keep them from meddling? Would she actually kill them, despite her previous attempts to preserve their lives? Would she want to kill them more now, to prove that they weren't a weakness of hers?

Joan's mind was flooded with possibilities and scenarios. She needed a plan.

They had been moved into the bigger room and Joan took the opportunity to let her body rest. By the time she was awake again, it was eight at night, and everyone was awake.

Mycroft sat beside his son on Sherlock junior's bed while Sherlock senior waved his arms and bullied John into putting up the Moriarty wall of crazy to the Holmesian standard. Joan would be thrown by how ruthless Sherlock would be in regards to John if it weren't for the fact that John and Sherlock senior kept sending each other strangest and warmest looks.

It was her first time seeing Sherlock Holmes of London in action, but it was also as if she was meeting John Watson for the first time. Sherlock was a force to be reckoned with, even trapped in a bed and easily exhausted. John however, was a changed man, his whole body alert and energetic.

There really was no one without the other.

The other occupants of the room had finally all noticed Joan again. Sherlock senior turned to Joan. "Ms. Joan Watson," he addressed her.

Joan smiled. "It's nice to finally meet you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

He smiled as well. "I understand you share quite a lot of traits with my Watson. I was wondering if you had been in the army as well?"

Joan looked down. "I went through boot camp, but when they asked me to fight in a war I didn't believe in, I left."

"Dishonorable discharge." Sherlock senior replied casually.

Joan gave a weak smile. "You better believe it. Which means I've got two."

"Two?" Mycroft asked.

"I lost my license to practice medicine as well." Joan admitted with piercing eyes.

"Fascinating." Both Sherlocks said simultaneously.

Joan hoped it was a good thing.

* * *

The sky had turned dark and Captain Gregson grimaced at the sight. Another late night at the station. He had forced Bell home early that day, despite Bell's protests. At least one of them needed to be well-rested.

Thomas Gregson took another sip of his diet Pepsi just as one of the late-night officers approached him. "Sir, there was a package addressed to Sherlock Holmes left outside."

Oh no. That can never be good. "Give it here." He ordered. The officer gratefully handed it over.

"Did you check it?" Gregson asked.

The officer nodded. The captain gave it a once-over himself just to be certain (or perhaps to calm his own nerves) and then picked up a pair of scissors and opened the package.

Both policemen peered in before looking at each other with matching looks of confusion. Inside the package were two curly, ginger locks of hair, and a CD. Scrawled on the CD in worn-out sharpie were three words.

_The Greek Interpreter_


	9. Chapter 7

What It Means To Be A Man

Chapter 7: The Greek Interpreter

The two Sherlocks were perched on Sherlock senior's bed, investigating the strange packaged with undisguised glee. Sherlock senior was being held in place by John but Sherlock junior was now contorting his body, including his back, in a very strange position so as to get closer to whatever answers he was looking for in the brown hair and CD.

"Sherlock, you've got to be careful! You have a burn wound on your back!"

"It's fine!" Sherlock junior whined.

"You have nerve damage!" Joan continued.

"Only a little bit." Sherlock junior was protesting, but he seemed to already start giving in.

Joan had pushed a chair from the other side of the room to Sherlock senior's bedside, and proceeded to force Sherlock junior into that chair. She then walked around to face him.

"You stay in this chair or I'm going to strap you in like a baby, do you understand?" She hissed at him.

"Perfectly!" Sherlock junior couldn't stop nodding.

"That's amazing." John remarked. Joan just pulled up another chair to help Mycroft into, so he could look at the package too and stop giving everyone a pathetic longing look.

"I swear to God, you guys are all bloodhounds or something." Joan complained as she pushed Mycroft over as well.

"At least it's for the benefit of the NYPD." Gregson consoled as he produced a laptop from his bag and handed it over.

Joan passed it without looking over to Sherlock junior, who passed it to his uncle who interjected just then, "and to the benefit of Scotland Yard."

"That's right. I even went there once." Gregson said with a smile.

"You said you met our Sherlock on that trip. How come he never met the other Sherlock there?" Joan asked.

"Because I was in rehab at the time," Sherlock senior answered.

John had a question now. "How many times were you in rehab?"

"Four," Mycroft and Sherlock answered together.

"How many times did you go to rehab?" Joan asked Sherlock junior.

"Just the once. I used heroin at most once a year before Irene's death and after I spiraled completely out of control." Sherlock junior answered cheerfully. Mycroft snorted before throwing his own two cents in.

"And I never needed rehab at all," Mycroft remarked.

"You insufferable prat," John and Sherlock senior said simultaneously.

"That must have been difficult," Joan said to Mycroft, "having your younger brother and your son in rehab."

"It was a very stressful time," Mycroft admitted softly.

"Can we stop wasting time on unimportant matters and focus on the case now? Details, Captain Gregson," Sherlock senior ordered.

John was surprised. Three years ago Sherlock would have sneered at Mycroft's words, and remarked on how ridiculous it was for him to suffer in comparison to the people actually going through rehab, and frankly, if it really had been that stressful, Mycroft shouldn't have made them go through it.

But John's Sherlock kept his lips sealed tight. John was amazed. Sherlock senior was bright red from embarrassment.

"Well, lab results say that the two ponytails are from different people. They're about a month old, though one of them is a week or so older? No idea where they came from. Um, there's a password on the CD so we couldn't open it, but we thought you might know."

Sherlock senior had seized the laptop by this point and was jamming the CD into the CD reader while brimming with excitement. John at this point had also jumped up with excitement. "We know this case. Sherlock - " John exclaimed.

"A woman approached a little while before Reichenbach to ask us for help. She had received a lucrative job offer to be a babysitter, but a few of the points in the job description were quite suspicious." Sherlock senior explained.

John took over. "At the interview, she was told she'd have to model certain clothes for them, or sit in certain places for them. They said they needed her to be an art model as well. The weirdest thing was, they also wanted her to cut her hair."

"It turned out that the father was keeping his stepdaughter from marrying her boyfriend to hold onto her inheritance, and the babysitter was hired because she resembled his daughter. And the title of the blog entry you put up for it was - "

"The Copper Beaches," John answered sheepishly. The Holmes boys all gave him various groans. "It was a beach house, alright?" John protested as Sherlock senior rolled his eyes.

"Your nasty habit for puns and petty quips is annoying at best. You're lucky I love you anyway." Sherlock senior said distractedly as he typed in the password to the CD. He froze when he realized what he had said. John and Sherlock junior broke down into giggles while Mycroft gave a world-weary sigh.

"Shut up!" Sherlock senior ordered. Joan broke down as well.

* * *

The four of them crowded around Sherlock senior: John sitting beside Sherlock on the bed with Joan standing behind him, and father and son in chairs beside the bed to finish off their little corner. They just barely fit.

On screen showed security footage of three men in a dark room, devoid of furniture besides a metal table and chair. Two were guards sitting in the back while one was sitting at the table, tied down and gagged. The door opened, and in walked two men. One was obviously another guard, but the other man was trembling and very nervous.

The newcomer was forced into his chair by the third bodyguard while one of the other bodyguards roughly tore the tape off of the hostage's mouth. The hostage immediately spit in the guard's face. He got a fistful of his hair ripped out for his troubles.

The newcomer was briefed by his guard. The accent was undeterminable, but the newcomer was obviously British.

"Talk Greek to him," the bodyguard ordered to the trembling British man, "Translate for me."

The British man nodded, and what followed was a series of very tense conversations in Greek.

"He says you have to sign the papers," Sherlock senior translates just as the British man starts speaking in Greek.

"Tell the Russian dogs to go fuck themselves," Sherlock translates as reply. John chokes. The British man amends the reply to a simple 'no.'

Joan speaks up then. "If they can't understand him at all, can't the interpretor slip in anything he wants?"

Sherlock senior smiled at her as he translated the next lines. "He says it would be good for both you and the girl if you did. Who are you?"

The hostage shook his head. "There is no girl. I am alone. My name is Paul Kratides," Sherlock translated monotonously.

Now Sherlock junior spoke up. "I've heard that name before."

"He's the PA of Christos Theophilus, the Russian oligarch." Mycroft said in a strange tone.

"The Narwhal," Both Sherlocks exclaimed, "I should have known," they both lamented.

The Watsons restrained themselves.

Now it was the interpreter's turn to talk again. "He asks if you know what happened to your boss. Who should I contact for you?"

The hostage tensed up. "I know what happened, and I know who you are. You have to contact your brother for me, Mycroft Holmes. Tell him Paul Kratides - "

At the mention of Mycroft's name, everyone jumped up. The bodygards immediately ran forward and slammed the hostage's head on the table, yelling in broken Russian and English about Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft Holmes - how do you know Mycroft Holmes -

The interpreter ran for it before anyone could stop him. Sherlock senior stopped the video, and he leaned back to slump on his bed just as Mycroft gave a groan and dropped his head in his hands.

"That was you, wasn't it? The interpreter?" Sherlock junior said to Sherlock senior.

He nodded. "Timothy Melas was an alias of mine; a mild mannered tutor of European languages. I was hunting down trails, but this one came to me."

Sherlock senior sighed. "But ater what happened, I didn't know what to do, so I contacted Mycroft. I didn't do a follow-up."

Mycroft stood up then and went for the computer. "There was no chance for a follow-up," he said darkly before pushing play again.

What followed needed no further explanation or translation. The bodyguards ruthlessly beat Kratides the PA before retying and gagging himm again. Ten minutes later, they brought in a woman, sobbing and crying helplessly.

"Alethea Theopolis," Joan said with a gasp.

Both Alethea and Kratides were obviously very shocked as seeing each other alive, and their struggling increased tenfold at the sight of each other, all while everyone in the room ylled louder and louder, their languages mixing in the air until it sounded more like animal noises than human speech. Worst of all were Alethea and Kratides, who hadn't taken their eyes off each other since and were yelling at each other with stronger and stronger longong at every attack from the guards.

"The two were lovers," Sherlock senior said quietly.

Kratides started crying harder when the guards stopped bothering with him and turned their attentions entirely on Alethea. For ten minutes, everyone watched while they beat her to death. Kratides fought his bonds and called the guards names; cried for Alethea, for God, for Mycroft Holmes -

Mycroft had turned his face away at that point. His son had reached out to grip his father's arm, grounding him for the rest of those terrible minutes.

The guards shot Kratides in the legs and let him slowly bleed to death. The video ended with: "I know it was you. I know you are alive. Bring me the Bruce-Partington Plans or I will kill everyone around you too."

Sherlock senior slammed the laptop clsed and threw it into John's lap before whirling on his brother, livid. "Bruce-Partington Plans. Where are they?!"

Mycroft was silent, frozen in shock. "WHERE ARE THEY?! TELL ME NOW?!" Sherlock yelled again.

Before John could wrestle Sherlock senior back into bed, Mycroft jumped up again. "I don't know!" He cried out.

"Do you really think I'm that dense? There is no way you don't have any idea at all, now stop lying and tell me the truth!" Sherlock senior sneered back.

"I don't know, and that is the truth! I'm not omniscient!" Mycroft was close to breaking now, and by the looks on both the Sherlocks' faces, this revelation was enough to also put them close to the edge.

John had had enough. He pushed Sherlock junior back down into his chair, and pulled Mycroft away, leaving Joan to deal with the Sherlocks while he dealt with the most difficult of the Holmes boys.

* * *

"They always had so many questions for me, always had to know everything and I wanted it to be me who gave them the answers. I should have made them look it all up themselves or bother their teachers." Mycroft said bitterly as John steered him away. A police officer followed them discreetly a few steps behind.

"Alright, fill me in. What happened?" John asked.

"Macedonia happened, John," Mycroft started, and it sounded so much like Sherlock John was disoriented for a few seconds. "Someone killed an ambassador of Macedonia in order to profit nearly a billion dollars off of a foreign currency scam. One murder, quite a few strings pulled, one very determined lady, and the idea was just crazy enough to work."

"She calls herself Moriarty, as well," Mycroft continued, "we have yet to determine which one was the real Moriarty. The most likely situation is, both Moriarty's are real, but the original one was, or is, the most influential. We have to take that Moriarty down."

"I'm sure you did all that you could, Mycroft."

"I had looked at the picture in too large a manner. I bribed, pulled favors, threatened everyone who had been against the idea with suitable consequences. I had not anticipated Theopolis' betrayal. It was an incredibly simple plan."

"You Holmes boys always want everything to be clever and complicated."

"It was so simple, it was brilliant. I had not anticipated a second Moriarty. I had definitely not expected a Moriarty that made the previous Moriarty look like a petty criminal."

No one could have done more," John said soothingly.

Mycroft scoffed. "Still rather irritating to find I've failed them again. Come on, it's time to face the music, as they say."

John patted Mycroft's shoulder, "Do you want to, I don't know, practice in front of me first?"

The look Mycroft gave him was withering.

* * *

The second John and Mycroft had left, Joan and resoundly smacked both Sherlocks on the back of their heads.

"You," she said to Sherlock junior, "stop looking at your dad like he killed a puppy in front of you, and you - " she said to Sherlock senior, "Stop antagonizing your brother. You're not helping at all, you're just making the situation worse, and if we argue with each other - "

Sherlock senior threw off his covers and stomped out of the room. "I dont need a failed ex-surgeon who couldn't act in time to give me advice on the 'situation!'" He yelled back.

* * *

"No one ever stopped you, did they?" Joan said as she walked up to Sherlock hiding in the hallway. "No one ever taught you manners, or empathy? I bet your parents and brother always taught you that you were better than everyone else, because you were smarter?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

"So when you went out into the real world and realized no one else saw it that way, you just shut yourself away, didn't you? And you thought that, if you turned your intelligence into a weapon, no one could use it against you. You hurt people, before they can hurt you." Joan continued.

Sherlock's eyes were dark with anger now.

"But guess what, strength isn't just about doing things. You don't always have to be on the offensive. Strength is knowing when to act, and when not to act. As a woman of color, I learned real fast to pick my battles, but you've alwaays been steeped in privilege, and this is something you really never understood."

Joan stepped closer and crowded Sherlock senior to the wall. "I chose to not fight in President Bush's war. I chose not to save the man on my operating table. If you don't figure out how to cooperate and stop letting your stupid ego and your stupid pride get in the way, I'm going to take my Sherlock and your brother away and I will choose not to help you."

"I don't need your help," Sherlock said as Joan turned to leave.

Joan shot him the dirtiest look. "Only a fool would say that. You barely escaped the fake Moriarty; I'm the woman who beat the real one. Show some respect."

* * *

The three Holmes, John Watson, and Joan Watson had reconvened in their room. Joan was talking.

"Obviously the female Moriarty we're dealing with now is the real one. She's obviously older, and bbesides the Moriarty bombings, all of Moriarty's schemes have been undetectable and very subtle. Put in comparison with the bombings, which were outlandish, sloppy, and obviously designed to be attention-catching, and the only logical conclusion is that the Moriarty that supposedly died on the roof at St. Bart's is the fake one, and the one we're dealing with now is the real one."

"Which means that Moriarty came to see me after Sherlock's suicide and probably know that there are two Sherlocks," Sherlock junior said.

"Given the message on the video, she probably also knows that Sherlock faked his death," John added.

Sherlock senior said nothing, just stared at his brother. FInally, Mycroft sighed and sat forward.

"The Bruce-Partington plans were probably the most complicated plans I had ever devised. It was to draw out the ex-spy Silva from hiding, by using MI6's blueprints as bait. Unfortunately, he succeeded in attacking MI6 and we were left floundering."

"Blueprints?" John said incredulously.

Mycroft glared at him. "To one of the most secure planes in Britain, yes John, blueprints."

"What happened?" Sherlock senior finally spoke up.

Mycroft shook his head. "After my first attempt failed, MI6 took the matter entirely out of my hands. Since then, I have not heard or seen anything about the plans. They only contacted me once afterwards, to tell me they had succeeded; but not a word about how it had happened or what it had cost."

"Didn't bother to do a bit of legwork for yourself?" SHerlock senior couldn't resist.

"Don't be ridiculous. I tried everything but I was completely locked out."

"Did you try asking nicely?" John said cheekily. Joan smacked him in the back of his head for his troubles.

"I have some contacts in MI6; if we cooperate with them, we might be able to figure out why Moriarty wants them." Mycroft answered blandly.

"Back then, Andrew West had them. Why didn't Moriarty take the plans then?" Sherlock senior asked.

"It seems Ms. Joan is right; that might not have been the real Moriarty." Mycroft assented.

Joan couldn't resist sending a very smug look back at Sherlock senior.

"I will need a few burner phones and laptop tomorrow, but I think I can do it," Mycroft said in a cautiously optimistic tone.

"It's late now anyway, and you all are still healing. We won't get the DNA results from the lab until tomorrow anyway," Joan agreed.

They all protested, but eventually Joan managed to wrangle all the men into their beds before she too retired.

If she had known what was about to happen, she would have made them all stay up instead.


	10. Chapter 8

What It Means To Be A Man

Chapter 8: Skyfall

They were all light sleepers, but Sherlock senior caught on first. His yelp of terror woke up everyone else, and the whole room erupted into chaos.

By the time John had smashed the pitcher of water by his bedside into the man trying to smother him, Sherlock senior had already dispatched his attacker with two solid kicks to the abdomen and crotch before he slammed the poor man into the wall behind him.

John picked up his attacker, punched him again, and then he ran to help Sherlock junior while Sherlock senior ran to help Mycroft.

Joan had tasered her attacker and was running for the light switches, which was also when two other men appeared in the doorway and started shooting.

Joan switched the lights back off, giving John and the Sherlocks enough time to pull out their own guns. Joan hid in the corner while John took aim and fired into the heads of the two newcomers; Mycroft and the Sherlocks took the chance to take cover behind the beds.

Two more assassins fired into the room, and John barely managed to escape unscathed. Sherlock senior pulled out his own rifle just as Mycroft forced his son's head back down.

"I can help!" Sherlock junior wailed.

"Stay down, for god's sake!" Mycroft pleaded.

The other Sherlock fired off three shots before the other assassin broke cover to start shooting as well. Sherlock senior ducked and John finished him off.

Everyone hid back down. After a few moments, the smoke cleared and Joan turned the lights back on before cautiously turning on the hallway lights outside as well. She then returned to the room to check on everyone else.

Sherlock junior and Mycroft checked each other over while John forced Sherlock senior back down into a seat to do the same. The Holmes brothers had both pulled their stitches, but were otherwise unharmed.

"What the hell just happened?" John voiced aloud after he handed his gun to Joan.

"Assassins," Sherlock junior said weakly, "for my father. We should have aniticipated this."

"But what about our police detail?" Joan wondered aloud. Sherlock junior froze.

Before Mycroft could even cry out, Sherlock junior had tore out of the room and into the hallway, Joan right on his heels. Sherlock senior cursed and grabbed his rifle again. To the amazement of both John and Sherlock, Mycroft too ran into danger after his son.

"Gregson! Gregson!" Sherlock junior yelled as he searched desperately.

"Sherlock, get back here – oh my god!" Joan cried out. Two turns later, and they had found Gregson and Bell, along with three other fallen police officers. Joan put the gun down and started helping Gregson up.

"He shielded me, the son of a bitch." Gregson said gruffly, blinking fast. In his arms was the bleeding and unconscious Detective Bell.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled out. "Dad!" Sherlock junior yelled back. "Get out of here!" Gregson shouted.

Too late. Was it reinforcements or just extras lying in wait, they would never know. But a woman appeared now, two pistols in hand, right behind Sherlock junior. Joan fumbled for her gun but she wasn't fast enough. In an instance, Mycroft had run past them all and was wrestling the woman for her guns.

Two shots, one into his abdomen and one into his hip, and Mycroft went down in a haze of pain, fear, and adrenaline. Gregson and Joan finished the assassin off while Sherlock junior crawled over to his father, shaking. Five bullet wounds, one in his abdomen – would he even make it through the night?

"Dad? You have to survive, do you hear me?" Sherlock junior mumbled as he tried to staunch the bleeding with his own hospital gown. "You promised to visit me more often, but I don't want you to do that as a ghost." He laughed at his own joke, his red eyes betraying him.

Joan took charge, and forced Gregson and Bell into their own hospital room while helping Sherlock junior with Mycroft just as paramedics and police from elsewhere finally arrived to help. Joan yelled for help and five nurses came to stitch up Bell and Mycroft.

"Don't die, Dad, do you hear me? You can't die! Sherlock junior cried out as he clung to his father's hand.

"Of course I can't die. Who else is going to keep you out of trouble?" Mycroft whispered back.

* * *

It wasn't safe.

God but it wasn't safe. They had been there for hours now, but it didn't seem like they had another choice. Sherlock junior stuck to Gregson's side while Bell and Mycroft stayed in the emergency room, and Gregson and another officer was on guard duty while Joan and John ran around assisting the nurses and doctors.

So many dead now. How many of those officers had been expecting a quiet day, or just a minimally exciting one in the protecting of the Holmes family? How many of those had families that depended on them? How many of them had a Sherlock or John who couldn't live without them?

So many would not be coming back ever, three years or not. Sherlock senior could barely hold back his own fear. Mycroft might not survive. Mycroft may not survive.

Who could have done this? The resources, the connections – who, and why? Assassins – breaking into a hospital in the dead of night with no deterrence besides the few police officers that they personally knew. Sherlock knew his nephew frequently called them his "Irregulars," a quirky name he gave for all his police friends. He chanced a look at his nephew, who was currently showing his grief freely on his face. Even Sherlock senior hurt right now.

Before he could refocus, a little pinging alert distracted him. Sherlock senior leaned over and started rifling through his bag of cell phones before pulling out the nicest one, the newest iPhone. He opened the text message.

_Help. Circus in danger._

Sherlock senior scrambled off his bed to his brother's and grabbed his phone. Mycroft had his phone on silent, didn't he – oh no.

Mycroft too, had gotten the plea for help from the Circus, which was officially known as the MI6, but also a torrent of other ones. Names like Silva, Jim Prideaux, Control, M, stuck like pins in Sherlock's mind as he read through them all.

What the hell's happened? Sherlock senior walked to the window and stared at his iPhone. His brother wasn't here. His brother wasn't here to help him with this. Oh, he was never as good as he would have liked at this part.

He dialed a number on his iPhone and changed character.

"Bill? It's Peter Guillam. What the hell is going on?"

* * *

After six months of absence, Peter Guillam had returned to the circus with information, bad news, and a plethora of new scars.

Peter Guillam was an alias Sherlock senior had made back when he was much younger, after rehab 1 and through rehab 2 and 3. It was a challenge set by Mycroft, whose alias there was Mallory, a high-up government official that connected the forever-wayward Circus to the Prime Minister. Peter Guillam was head of the scalphunters, the agents sent out into the field to do all the dirty work: assassinations, debt collecting, information and people collecting, etc, etc. Top of this list was an old practice left over from the Cold War days: the double-o agents. The best of the best scalphunters were given numbers, and with it, the best technology, the best identities, and the most dangerous jobs. In the circus, the most famous of these agents was a man named James Bond.

Oh how Peter Guillam and Sherlock senior hated the double-o agents, especially Bond, whose number was 07. They went in guns blazing and to the beat of their own damn drum and left it for Peter and the quartermasters to clean up after them. 07 were notorious now, both in the circus and out in the world, and this notoriety was only useful occasionally. It was nothing but a headache normally.

But Peter left and Sherlock returned when Sherlock could no longer ignore his own homosexuality and could no longer ignore his drug problem again, which culminated in rehab 4 and months and months of therapy. Sherlock didn't want to be his brother, and so hung up his Peter Guillam disguise and went into detective work. He intended his resignation for good.

But you never really leave the circus.

But Peter's call to Bill Haydn didn't get him much information. Jim Prideaux, a veteran scalphunter, had been captured in Austria and Control and George Smiley had been sacked. To add insult to injury, M, the woman in charge of the double-o department, was dead now thanks to some fiasco with M, a bombing at MI6, and an old agent named Silva, and people were clamoring for Mallory (Mycroft) to take her place.

Undoubtedly Mycroft would rather kill himself before babysitting a bunch of glorified, egotistical messengers, so Sherlock made a note to fake his brother's signature and appoint himself, or rather, Peter Guillam, as head of the double-o agency until this whole debacle was finished.

"You'll be needed, Peter. The circus needs you, and it'll be better for your dignity if you come back on your own rather than when they drag you back kicking and screaming." Bill said drily. Peter did not mention to Bill his close connection to Jim Prideaux, said thank you instead, and hung up.

What would his brother do? With Control, the head of MI6 gone, both MI6 and MI5 would be floundering, especially with his brother currently MIA. He would have to meet up with Control and George Smiley himself, perhaps in the Diogenes Club, and then relegate the regular scalphunter responsibilities to the lower-down managers so that he could focus on keeping the double-o agency from imploding on itself.

But first, he had to get everyone out of danger, and that really meant everyone. Sherlock senior wracked his brain for his connections. Who could he call in to transport them all out of danger? Someone with an airplane perhaps, someone who wouldn't be missed –

"Martin," Sherlock whispered.


	11. Chapter 9

What It Means To Be A Man

Chapter 9: Cabin Pressure

"For the last time Douglas, you're not hiring me to help you move your tea sets onto GERTI!" Martin Crieff, Captain of the airdot known as MJN Air, yelled at his first officer.

Douglas Richardson, first officer of the airdot known as MJN Air, pouted but didn't seem really put off. "Come now Martin, it's just a few presents!"

"You managed a hundred boxes of those damn tea sets Douglas – a hundred is never just a few!" Martin yelled back.

"You're a man with a van; just think of it as a man with an airplane now! I'm not even asking you to do anything you don't want to do – just fly the bloody things to New York!"

"Could I have a tea set?" Arthur, steward to the airdot known as MJN Air, asked.

"If you help me convince Martin to help me fly a tea-set-filled GERTI to its destination, yes." Douglas said cheekily.

"How dare you – don't you dare help him Arthur!" Martin said to Arthur.

"Oh please Skipper, it'll be fun! It would be like we lived in China!" Arthur said excitedly.

"…How?" Martin asked.

"I don't know, but it's tea and it's brilliant – oh Skip, please!"

"Shut up, all of you, before I brain you all with these tea sets." Carolyn, CEO and owner of MJN Air (and Arthur's mother), threatened. The boys fell silent.

"Um, Carolyn - " Douglas tried.

Carolyn didn't even blink. "No."

It was silent for a few more seconds. Finally Martin exploded. "Alright, you can hire me for your bloody tea sets!"

"Hooray!" Arthur and Douglas cheered. Carolyn just groaned and walked off, mumbling something about drinks.

"But – but, if I get arrested, I'm going to pretend I don't know anything about the tea sets!" Martin added in.

"Oh, bad idea Martin – you're terrible at playing pretend." Douglas replied cheekily.

"When grown-ups play pretend, isn't it just lying? Yeah, you're awful at that Skip. Almost as bad as me!" Arthur said cheerfully.

Martin's terrible little cell phone rang, and Martin dimly hoped it was somehow a message that would end his suffering.

"Martin." A terribly familiar voice said. Martin froze.

"Hello?"

"Martin, it's me. Sherlock." The voice said again.

Martin was finding that it was getting hard to breathe at this point. Even Douglas was looking at him rather funnily.

"But, you're…" Martin said weakly.

Sherlock senior sighed in frustration. "Oh yes, sorry – faked my suicide, not dead, but assassins are after me and Mycroft and Mycroft's son, which is also named Sherlock, and if I don't get everyone out soon we will all be dead so if you could just get your little plane over to New York to pick us up while we're still alive that would be just great. Martin? Martin?"

Martin fainted.

* * *

"I'm fine…I'm fine…" Martin said over and over again while Douglas poured him just pineapple juice.

"Of course you are," Douglas said soothingly.

In the other room, Carolyn was talking excitingly to the other person on Martin's cell phone while Arthur dutifully took notes for his mother.

"So," Douglas said, sitting down on the floor beside Martin, "did my hearing finally die on me or were you just on the phone with Sherlock Holmes, the fake detective?"

"Not fake," Martin mumbled, "cousin of mine. Faked his death, apparently. Life in danger, needs us to fly him out."

"And where are we going?" Douglas asked.

"New York." Martin said. Douglas just smiled.

"Douglas! Of all the times to think of your tea sets!" Martin reprimanded, turning red with anger.

Douglas reached out soothingly. "Martin, we'll have an excuse to be in New York. Dropping off some tea sets! It'll be a great cover to get them out of New York. Right?"

Martin huffed. Douglas always had good excuses. "Yes, I suppose."

Carolyn peeked her head in and greeted her pilots. "Hello drivers. We're off to New York. You two get the plane ready, Arthur and I are going to grab some airport food to go, and then we'll be off!"

"Uh, Carolyn? Since we're going to New York anyway…" Douglas said.

"Oh fine!" Carolyn relented. "As long as I get a tea set too.

"Hooray!" Douglas and Arthur cheered.

"Oh no…" was the first thing that Martin said when their clients appeared.

Martin could see his cousins Sherlock and Mycroft, along with a blond man he recognized from the newspapers as Dr. John Watson, as well as a younger man and an Asian woman. All of this seemed relatively straightforward; nothing too shocking.

What was shocking was that they all were sporting MJN Air uniforms. The younger man, Mycroft, the Asian woman, and Dr. Watson were stewards while Sherlock…had died his hair and was now sporting a perfect copy of Martin's uniform, down to the wear and tear. It was impossible to tell them apart now.

"Incredible. Apparently you can look like a Captain." Douglas said in awe. Arthur's jaw had hit the floor.

"Into the plane. If you have time to gawk, you have time to help." Sherlock snapped. Between the younger man and Dr. Watson was Mycroft, lying unconscious on a stretcher. MJN Air moved aside.

Sherlock immediately bounded into the flight deck while the younger man stepped back and allowed Dr. Watson and the Asian woman to fuss over Mycroft.

"What's going on?" Martin asked Sherlock, since the rest of the flight crew seemed to have turned mute at the sight of the newcomers.

Sherlock sighed as he started checking the instruments. "Mycroft and I have assassins on our trail, the younger man is Sherlock junior, Mycroft's son, the asian lady is Joan Watson, not related to my Watson, but is the younger Sherlock's partner, but also a doctor, surgeon actually, – and John and I are now in a relationship. That should be everything."

John gave a giggle when Sherlock finished and everyone gaped at him.

"Oh yes, and I'm flying. Care to be my first officer?" Sherlock senior said, turning to Martin with a smile. Martin sank into Douglas's chair and let his instincts take over. Douglas blinked a few times, and then turned to the Watsons to offer his help. He had gotten through quite a bit of medical school after all. It can't hurt.

"Wow…" Arthur breathed out.

"I need some pineapple juice." Carolyn groaned.

* * *

"I want Arthur and I off this plane," Carolyn said after half an hour of flying.

"Aww, Mum!" Arthur whined.

"Don't aww, mum me Arthur! I don't care if you give me that Harry Potter woman's entire fortune; I'm not putting Arthur in danger! I can't speak for my pilots, but once we land I am not helping you any longer!" Carolyn ranted.

"Good. Douglas will go with you," Martin said.

"Like hell I will!" Douglas snarled at his captain. Sherlock senior wisely stayed quiet.

"Sherlock and Mycroft are my family, and I'm going to help them, but I am not endangering my friends. Douglas, you are staying here." Martin insisted.

Douglas looked fit to burst. "I'm not letting you run headfirst into danger while I go retire off alone in my house. Who'd get you out of trouble?"

"I wouldn't have even been in half of all that trouble if it weren't for you!"

"You're a fool if you think you can get through this without me - " Douglas ranted.

Martin was yelling now too. "I'm not some helpless pathetic creature; I don't want your pity and I certainly don't want your help! When this is over you are getting off this plane!"

"You want me off this plane, you're going to have to kill me before I leave your side," Douglas gritted out.

"Oh for god's sake - "

Arthur piped up. "Are we still talking about being on the plane?"

Before Martin or Douglas could answer that, Sherlock senior cut in. "Putting aside your romantic complications - " everyone spluttered. " – This plane needs two pilots and needs to act independently of our group, in case we need to leave false trails or you two need to escape because everything's gone to shit."

Sherlock turned to Carolyn. "Would you mind if we rented your plane? My brother will pay you handsomely for it."

Carolyn waved her hand. "I bet you could replace my plane too. Fine, you may borrow my plane. But if you rent out my pilots, pay them separately. I don't want a dime of that blood money."

"Carolyn," Douglas said, surprised. But Carolyn had retreated again, with Arthur following close behind.

"Douglas? Martin and I need to have a talk." Sherlock said. With another glare at Martin, Douglas also left.

The second the door slid to a close, Martin turned on his cousin. "It is not romantic!" He hissed, his face bright red.

Sherlock only raised an eyebrow. "Who do you think you're talking to?"

But Martin had had enough. "No, Sherlock Holmes, you do not get to imply things about…things that aren't about you! You come back into my life after being dead for three years just to tell me you're all about to die and put my friends in danger – you keep your implications to yourself!"

Sherlock was quiet as Martin settled back in his chair. "You've grown a backbone." Martin glared at him again, but Sherlock wasn't perturbed this time. "Mr. Richardson might be good for you."

"What do you know?" Martin replied. Sherlock couldn't answer that.

* * *

_A Few Months Prior_

Douglas had been fine when Martin left for his bathroom break, but now that he had returned, Douglas had never seemed angrier. Martin wasn't quite sure it was about a bathroom break though.

"Your cell rang while you were visiting the little boy's, Martin." Douglas said in a dangerously even tone.

Martin slid into his chair. "Oh?"

"Apparently Swiss Airways is very determined to get you to pilot for them, even though you turned them out already. A paying job. That you turned down."

Oh.

"Yes, oh - what, oh?! Is that all you have to say?! You can barely afford rent, you can't afford food, you don't get paid to do what anyone else would get paid to do – have you lost your mind?!" Douglas roared at Martin.

Be strong, Martin told himself. "I decided I didn't like job environment, so I stayed here. It's my right!" Martin snapped at the end.

Douglas scoffed. "What, you can put up with abuse and starvation and poverty, but heaven forbid there's someone annoying at Swiss Airways! Are you actually that stupid? This is your dream! What the hell are you staying here for?!" Douglas yelled.

Martin jumped out of his chair. "This is none of your business! You aren't my father!" Martin shouted.

"Oh, so friends can't ask after another?" Douglas retorted.

Martin couldn't stop himself. "No, because we're not friends!"

Douglas's face darkened and Martin knew he had gone too far, but he was too far gone. "I'm going to go get coffee from Arthur. When I get back, everything will be normal again."

Douglas went back to his console. He didn't answer him. Martin didn't expect him to.

Neither of them mentioned Theresa.

* * *

Martin finished up landing checks and turned on the com to address his motley family in the back. Sherlock senior had joined his brother and nephew in the back once again, leaving Douglas and Martin to pilot the plane. Martin wasn't sure whose company was worse.

"We're here," he said simply before turning it off. Then he turned it back on.

"If my cousin could tell me how we're supposed to sneak people who have been shot at in the last few hours off this airplane and out of a busy London airport, I'm all ears." He added drily.

"It's almost like you don't like him," Douglas said snidely.

Martin sighed. "Trouble follows Sherlock wherever he goes. Older Sherlock, I mean."

"That's an apt description for you as well, you know. Not the name part of course, the trouble part."

Martin snorted. "I can't help that, whereas you go looking for trouble."

Douglas turned to him with the strangest look on his face. "Only if I'm looking for you."

Martin didn't know how to answer that. He hasn't known how to answer Douglas for a while now, because inevitably all of their stunted and awkward conversations end with Douglas with a funny expression on and the last word.

The cabin door slid open to let Sherlock in and Martin let his Douglas musings leave before the door slid closed again.

"I called some friends and we'll be able to get everyone to safety. Whoever is leaving us needs to leave now. Carolyn and Arthur are already prepared." Sherlock ordered.

Martin shot Douglas a look, but Douglas refused to budge. Sherlock sighed. "Fine. You two will be aptly reimbursed for helping us fly GERTI or whatever plane we get around after this mess is over. Come on, I can book a hotel for you two tonight."

Douglas and Martin obediently got up to get their stuff. Outside the water-stained airplane windows he could already spy police friend and a very familiar grey-haired head. Sherlock senior wisely chose to disappear from Martin's presence before his cousin decided that somehow he could order Mr. Richardson to not follow them.

Sherlock inwardly snorted. He wasn't a miracle maker.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes, was it? Welcome back to London." Lestrade said politely. Sherlock junior nodded and then gestured to Joan.

"This is my partner in crime-solving, Ms. Joan Watson. No relation to the famous John Watson. Now, I heard you can protect me from people who think I'm the late Sherlock Holmes?"

Lestrade opened the police door for them. "Yes. Any relation for you to the famous Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock junior just gave him a look. "You have no idea."

With Lestrade suitably distracted and Martin and Douglas smuggled out in disguises, Sherlock and John could now wear their MJN uniforms as their disguises as they carried Mycroft to the ambulance waiting beside the plane. John sat down beside Mycroft after he was transferred to the bed inside the van while Sherlock senior jumped into the front.

"Evening, gentlemen." James Bond said smoothly, dressed immaculately in a nurse's uniform.

"Just get us out of here." Sherlock ordered.

James Bond smiled. "Yes, Mr. Guillam." Sherlock scowled in reply.


	12. Chapter 10

What It Means To Be A Man

Chapter 10: What It Means To Be A Man

Martin could not believe his luck. Sitting in a dirty bar after his family left him in a hurry due to the fact that their very lives were in danger, and all Martin could think of doing was downing drink after drink (paid for by Mycroft) beside a still-fuming Douglas. Neither of them had talked in the last two hours and if this continued for much longer Martin was going to throw this very expensive glass against something.

And he really couldn't afford that.

"It's late now. Shouldn't you sleep?" Douglas said, for once missing his usual suave and charm. Guess the events of the day took a toll on him as well.

Martin couldn't tell whether or not to be happy that Douglas was speaking to him again. "Not going to be able to sleep much." He muttered. He had too many thoughts in his head, too much alcohol in his blood, and the prospect of a single room made him feel very ill. (But it didn't stop him from sitting beside Douglas at the bar either.)

Douglas set down his and Martin's glasses. "What if we get called out tomorrow morning? You need your sleep."

Martin's stomach dropped. So the benefits of Douglas talking to him were now being outweighed by his fears of sharing a single room with Douglas. What if it was a single bed too? He wouldn't put it past his cousin. But he feigned drunkenness and let Douglas steer him into the room and onto the (single) bed before changing him out of his uniform and into sleeping clothes. It wasn't hard really; Martin was really quite tired…

"Douglas…" he whispered as his eyelids finally became too heavy to lift. Martin drifted off to sleep as Douglas sat quietly beside him, stroking his hair.

When he was sure that Martin was completely out, he whispered, "Goodnight my love," and turned off the lights.

The couch would be big enough for him…he hoped.

* * *

Joan and Sherlock caught up on some much-needed sleep in a posh hotel before going out for breakfast in one of Sherlock's favorite places in London. After that, they paid a visit to Scotland Yard, to meet up with DI Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan.

And it was love at first sight.

A intelligent and gorgeous woman strode up to meet Sherlock and Joan when they entered the building and Sherlock was floored. How had he never seen her before?! Where had she come from?

And where had she been all his life?

"Mr. Holmes, Ms. Watson, I'm Sergeant Donovan of Scotland Yard. It's nice to meet you."

Joan smiled in reply and Sherlock couldn't resist. "It's very nice to meet you, Sergeant. I must say, I quite admire you. It's nice to see someone like you in the police force."

Donovan's hackles rose. "What do you mean by that?"

Sherlock just smiled. "As you can see by my partner, she is also a woman of color and has also made her living amongst predominantly male positions. It is always inspiring to see people rise above institutionalized oppression and succeed regardless."

Sally just stared at him blankly. Joan decided to cut in.

"A bit deep for a first meeting, but he means it. He's a good ally." Joan said. Sherlock just preened and smiled wider, so Sally gave him a tentative smile back in return and turned back towards the door.

* * *

"'The Giant Rat of Sumatra,'" said Sherlock brightly, "so it's a painting."

Sally nodded. "Drawn by some new upcoming artist from China called XinXin – New Star. Supposed to be the next artistic genius, but XinXin only ever paints strange things. It's good work, but it never looks like anything."

"So what's so special about this painting?" asked Joan.

"The painting supposedly contains clues about the identity of a foreign spy in the Chinese Communist Party, so people are very eager to get their hands on it." Sally explained. "We wouldn't care if it was just affecting them, but we've found two bodies now in our jurisdiction with messages leading to this painting."

Sherlock and Joan glanced at each other. They had originally intended to only stay with Scotland Yard for witness protection; get out of the way so Sherlock senior could focus on the new MI6 fiasco and cleaning up what Mycroft's absence had left behind instead of worrying for their safety. However, when he went through Mycroft's inbox, an urgent plea for help with this case had come up, so he gladly palmed it off to his nephew to solve.

"I'll take care of the Bruce-Partington Plans," Sherlock senior had said on the plane, "just focus on this case. And don't tell anyone about me!" he added, rather unnecessarily. Sherlock junior had rolled his eyes, but Joan had a wounded look on her face.

"He's not going to tell his friends in Scotland Yard?" Joan asked. Sherlock blinked. He didn't think his uncle had friends. Seeing his confusion, Joan had switched to her patented you-should-know-better look and he deflated.

No one had any delusions about who was actually pulling the strings, and honestly, Sherlock didn't think his uncle would waste his time with anything not involved with Moriarty right now. So what was going on?

"Could I see the painting?" Sherlock asked. Sally nodded. "Not the real thing, but I've got photos."

"Where is the painting right now?" Joan asked.

"It was bought anonymously and is now on its way to the Queen."

"What, why?" Sherlock asked.

"Apparently the buyer thought it'd be a good present or something." Sally replied.

When the picture came up, everyone immediately leaned forward and squinted.

"What…is it?" Joan asked.

"I thought it was supposed to be abstract." Sally replied.

The painting was, if it could be explained at all by the limitations of the English language, an utter mess. The painting was covered in huge blobs of red and blue and green, behind which was an even more confusing array of colors, though that could only be glimpsed at the edges of the paintings

Sherlock shook his head. "No…see, these strokes here," he said while pointing at the mutinous blobs of red, "are very sloppy, amateur-like, but these" he added, while pointing at the edges of the painting, "are very precise strokes."

"This painting was probably done by two people. In fact - " He then stopped, and put his face to the screen, and stared.

After a very uncomfortable silence, Joan tapped him on the shoulder. "Should we leave you alone?" She said.

He waved her off. "Give me two hours." He whispered.

* * *

One hour and fifty minutes later, Sherlock bounded out wide-eyed and slightly more off-his-rocker than usual. Joan kept her cool but Sally was visibly uncomfortable in the onslaught of Sherlock Junior's enthusiasm.

"Sally, where did you get the pictures?" He shot out, rapid-fire, to her.

"Uh…Chinese government, I believe." She replied. "No one who's actually seen the real article has come forward."

Sherlock jumped into a chair and then jumped back out. "Those pictures were photoshopped. I believe the genuine painting also looks like that, but in this case, these pictures were doctored to give us clues."

Sherlock jumped back into the chair and stayed down this time, thankfully. "Now, I opened up photoshop and took apart the different layers. It took me a while, but I got through to the actual painting."

And then he suddenly sobered, and turned grim. "Actually, you might not like what you see."

"How bad could it be?" Sally asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Just…fair warning." He said, before setting the laptop down and opening the top up.

"Oh God." Joan said.

Such a sentiment could have been used for all the sights in the paintings. All over were the gruesomely mangled and multicolored naked bodies of pale men while they were covered in blood, entrails, and each other. One man was a three-headed creature that was impaled three times: once by spear in the face, once by spear in the chest, and once by penis attached to another man.

There was an angel covered in dead bodies with one clearly underneath him coupling from behind. It was hard to tell whether his expression was one of ecstasy or pain. There was a man wearing a dog mask coupling with a man in a pig mask. In the background were other naked men depicted in sex and violence and covered in every color imaginable.

"It's a fascinating painting," Sherlock said excitedly, "you wonder exactly who the artist was, and what were they thinking when they made this. What message were they trying to send? Was XinXin implying that all the politicians in the Chinese government were depraved and animalistic? Does the artist believe sex and violence as the same thing, because of its similarities in regards to intimacy? Did the artist have a violent past; was the artist ever wronged by someone of the Chinese government?"

"Sherlock." Joan cut in.

"Perhaps this is a doctored painting, with created images and false feelings in order to manipulate its viewers?" Sherlock barreled on.

"Sherlock!" Joan yelled. Sherlock stopped, and turned to her. She pointed at the painting.

"Those aren't Chinese politicians. Sherlock, that's you. And there's your uncle and that's your father, those are all the people linked to your family!" Joan said heatedly.

"That's preposterous, what's gotten into you - " Sherlock said as he turned back to the painting. His eyes scanned all the faces, which were quite detailed, despite the confusing and distracting mass of colors the entire painting was made of. Then he sat back.

"Oh," he said in a very small voice.

After a minute he added, "not Chinese politicians."

"No." Joan replied. "Wasn't Moriarty a professor of astronomy?"

"Yes, why?"

"Just, New Star. Two Moriartys, new Moriartys, New Star – I don't know, it might just be a coincidence."

Sherlock sighed. "Moriarty never lets an opportunity to show off slip away."

"Are those entrails coming out of Sherlock's stomach? And why does he have three heads?" Sally asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I haven't the faintest. It's a good likeness though."

"Wait." Sally had finally noticed the slip up. "What do you mean, uncle? Who's your family?"

Sherlock and Joan inwardly winced. "I'm Sherlock Holmes' nephew – Mycroft Holmes is my father."

"That's fucked up. What's it like, having him as a father?"

"Absent." Sherlock said distractedly as he scanned the painting again. "Nothing much."

"I had one too." Sally replied.

Sherlock stopped his instinctual urge to parrot to Sally the statistics of children in black families with absent fathers and instead smiled. Good. Less tactless.

Joan should be proud of his progress.

* * *

"Hello, Bill." Peter said once he slipped in behind Hayden. It had only been ten minutes but already Sherlock was chafing at his Peter guise.

"Peter! Good God, you look like a corpse!" Bill said, in his strangely attractive humor of half-worried, half-mocking. Bill Hayden was charismatic, good-looking, charming, and it was well known that he would earn a promotion, and then sleep his way through his newly earned group of unmarried subordinates, men and women. It would be a security hazard, but no one ever stopped him. Very few had never spent a romantic night or two with Bill. Even a few married ones would risk their marriages to have a go with Bill.

Sherlock would never admit it, though if he would, he would explain that it was because as ordinary Peter Guillam, a closeted gay man, it would only make sense to fall for Bill and become part of Hayden's network of friends that got benefits. Sherlock will go to his grave before ever admitting that it wasn't just Peter who wanted Bill.

"Duty called, so here I am again." Peter said with a quirky smile. It had taken ages to convince Mycroft to finally let him out of the service and back into civilian life. It was very irritating to have to come back, after all that work.

Yet the smell of the old building, the sights of the old filing cabinets and metal shelves interspersed with the new laptops and computers; the dusty smell of the new security systems and the shiny new smell of Hayden's office – Sherlock had missed it. He had, because even while dealing with unruly double-00 agents and circus politics, he had missed the daily puzzles of all those intelligent people in the same space and working together, the strange camaraderie that meant he had a family outside of Mycroft and his insufferable blue-blood heritage. He had missed the office parties when everyone would stop pretending that they were better than they actually were and get piss drunk together to sing randy songs and mock Americans. He missed when his colleagues would rope him into shady adventures, like stealing circus cars for joyrides, or running off with circus money to far-off countries for "field work," when really it was a paid vacation. He never liked playing pawns with people, but Mycroft had been right – he was good at it, and you always could get some satisfaction from doing what you were really very good at.

"Very glad you are, too." Bill said, smiling back. He had always known that Peter Guillam, despite his average rank inside the circus, had a lot of friends in high places and responsibilities that weren't included in his job description. Now, with the circus almost literally up in flames, Peter was flying through the ranks and acquiring titles the way children acquire candy on Halloween. Bill liked help, sure, but he wasn't sure how he felt about Peter suddenly being head of the scalphunters, head of the double-00 agents, and number 2 in the MI6 council, replacing George Smiley. While Hayden, Alleline and the other vied for Control's position, Peter Guillam was already sitting comfortably in power. If Bill weren't careful, Peter would outrank him quite quickly.

"One of our scalphunters - " Bill began.

"Jim Prideaux, one of your old friends from the army." Sherlock cut in, before Peter mentally kicked himself. He would have to be Peter 100% of the time, until this was all over.

"Yes – he was shot in Syria. Then the Russians took him and tortured him for weeks before finally letting him go. Almost revealed everything, except no one knows why he went to Syria at all. Then the Taliban got trigger-happy and threatened head of double-00 with all the names of the foreign spies in the Middle East. Ended with M getting killed and Control and Smiley forced into retirement along with Prideaux. Originally, M had been replaced by Mallory, but with Mallory forced into hiding, you're in charge now."

"So," Bill said as he leaned back smugly while sporting a self-deprecating smile, "where do you want to start?"

Peter sighed.

* * *

Douglas walked back into their hotel room just as Martin had finished brushing his teeth. "Carolyn just called. Apparently, since we are still MJN, it would be better if we kept doing cargo flights to cover our tracks. I got the ok from your family, so we're leaving in an hour."

The taxi ride to the airport was sub zero cold. At this point, Martin was ready to leave MJN and go back to being a man with the van if it meant never having to deal with Douglas ever again. Getting drunk only to be almost carried back to their room and babied – Martin felt sick. The pressure of dealing with assassination attempts also was not helping.

"We're here." Douglas said quietly, before jumping out of the car. Martin paid the taxi with the new credit card Sherlock had given him.

It was just when Martin had gotten past the airport lobby and heading towards security when he noticed how strangely sparse the airport was that day.

It was also when the first gunshots rang out.


	13. Chapter 11

What It Means To Be A Man

Chapter 11: An Unexpected Journey

For the fourth night in a row, John woke up once again having spent the night alone. Sherlock, or Peter Guillam, had neither called or texted John, and as far as John knew, the man had dropped dead the moment he came face to face with bureaucracy again. If there was anyone a mind-numbingly boring cubicle life could actually kill, it would be Sherlock.

But the world also hadn't ended yet, as far as he knew, so he thought it best to carry on as best he could, like a good soldier. He pretended he was back from his vacation in America, and so strolled around London all day, taking in the sights, trying all the expensive cafes, and enjoying the beer. He thought it was a rather good cover story: after all, his flat was outside of London in a sleepy no-man's place, and it made perfect sense to return to London for nostalgia's sake after three year's absence. One could just assume he finally got over his grief and stopped all that nonsense.

He had gone to 221B just yesterday, to go see how Mrs. Hudson was doing, and he managed to convince her to let him take her out for lunch in a fancy restaurant down the street. They had spent a very enjoyable afternoon together before he escorted her back and he went off to the pub. Around midnight he stumbled back to his hotel room, terribly bored and not nearly drunk enough to deal with it.

His phone woke him up with a text message at 6:30 am. _Vatican Cameos._

His heart sank.

* * *

What did Vatican Cameos even mean in this situation? Was Sherlock in trouble? Was he in danger? Was Mrs. Hudson in danger? Should he flee now or go later, to avoid suspicion? Should he try a disguise? John had texted Sherlock back a few times, but there was no answer. He didn't dare contact Mycroft or Sherlock junior. On a whim, or perhaps a stroke of genius, he turned on the telly. "Breaking news - guns were fired this morning at the London International Airport. Two pilots have been injured, but no deaths have been reported so far."

Onscreen there was grainy security footage of two pilots walking past a help desk before one man is hit by bullets. The pair take shelter behind the desk just as security rushes in. John isn't certain, but he can just make out Douglas Richardson's swagger.

So, Vatican cameos. Someone's been shot. The sniper was back.

John jumped up to grab his suitcase and his cell phone. He was tired of being Sherlock's pet bird in a hotel cage. He was done with waiting. And he had a pretty good idea of where to go next.

* * *

Bilbo Baggins met John Watson outside his sleepy house in his sleepy Shire town. It had taken John Watson 40 minutes to get out of London to the Shire in a cab, and it had taken John 5 minutes to befriend his cousin Bilbo the first time they had met, as children. It was at a Christmas celebration; their mothers made them cousins. Bilbo had brought only books and a booklight to entertain himself with, while John had two battered cricket bats and a ball. From then on, their mothers met as frequently as they could with their boys in tow, and John would also drag Bilbo from his books into the most ridiculous adventures.

(Bilbo would never admit it to John, but he was just as adventurous as his cousin. Books were the only thing that could keep Bilbo out of trouble, and Bilbo enjoyed making his cousin work to earn his attention before Bilbo would be his willing sidekick.)

They looked alike and were both good at being quiet, but John was quiet like a predator, with a mischievous gleam in his eye, while Bilbo was quiet like prey. John was quiet because even as a child, he understood the value of waiting until you had come up with clever words to say before opening your mouth, but Bilbo was quiet because he liked reading words more than saying them. When they became adults, John had become well spoken, outspoken, was steady when silent, but could cuss and brag with the best of them, but Bilbo had become, for lack of a better word, fussy. Very, very fussy. It had made for very stilted and awkward conversations, yet their relationship had survived, and here John was, years after the last time they had ever contacted each other, asking for a place to stay with no explanation whatsoever.

Bilbo eagerly opened his doors for him.

* * *

"Um...it's been a while. How have you been?" Bilbo said softly, looking every inch the soft-bellied professor he claimed to not be.

John couldn't resist falling into old habits, so gave his cousin a rakish smile. "Went to Afghanistan, got shot, came back, went a bit mad for a while, and now, here I am." He said.

"I heard about Sherlock Holmes. I'm so sorry." Bilbo replied.

John laughed. "S'not like I'm some mourning widow."

"Of course not." Bilbo said soothingly. John had forgotten how good Bilbo was at passive-aggressive honesty.

"What about you, Bilbo?" John shot back.

"Why are you here, John? Quiet towns were never attractive to you." Bilbo retorted.

John sighed. "I need a place to stay for a few days. Still got lots of money to burn through?"

"Yes," Bilbo replied. "It's not money troubles, is it? Not your fault?"

"Not money troubles, not my fault," John agreed. "If it had been my fault, I'd be too ashamed to ask for help."

"That's true." Bilbo replied in that same gentle tone. He set the tea down on the table along with some scones. "Just made those. I figured you'd be hungry after your trip. Please, stay as long as you like. It's been a long time since I've had company. Go ahead and get situated; I'll call you when it's time for lunch."

John nodded his thanks and grabbed his bags to head towards the guest room. Bag End, the childhood home of Bilbo and the getaway spot for many of John's family's vacations when he was young, hadn't changed at all. Besides the alarming amount of books, however.

* * *

John spent the morning texting and watching the news while Bilbo did some gardening outside his front door. They did not speak until John heard the door slam and turned to see a very flustered and red-faced Bilbo, huffing and puffing.

"Everything alright?" John asked.

Bilbo straightened his clothes with a squeak. "I'm fine!" He squawked, before huffing into the kitchen.

John held back an unmanly giggle. He had forgotten how funny Bilbo was when his feathers were ruffled. He would regret not asking Bilbo what had happened though, if only to get the slightest warning about what would happen later on.

Bilbo would spend the rest of the day wondering how accepting one guest to stay over meant he had accepted every old friend over to make themselves at home.

* * *

Usually Bilbo was quite good at the don't-open-the-door-pretend-you're-not-here routine when he saw strangers at the door, but something had possessed him that night and he had quite lost his common sense, which led to him opening the door for twelve Middle Eastern men.

Bilbo secretly blamed John. His penchant for trouble and adrenaline had always been very contagious to Bilbo, always the fuse to light his hidden trove of thrill-seeking hunger he had gotten from his mother's family.

First came a gigantic bald man named Dwalin, who sported rough traveling clothes and an even rougher beard. Then came the equivalent of dark-skinned Santa Claus, who was actually named Balin. Then two teenagers named Fili and Kili, and then a whole tide of them fell into his house, literally. Nori, Dori, Ori, Gloin, Oin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur - all of them in varying shades of what Bilbo knew from the news to be the physical looks of people from Afghanistan or Iran. Bilbo knew that his country had a problem with racist prejudice, especially against Middle Eastern men, but twelve men showing up in the middle of the night in his house without paperwork and a devil-may-care glint in their eyes was definitely a cause for alarm in Bilbo's book. It probably was possible, Bilbo thought, to fall into terrorism by coercion and accident. Or, even worse, Gandalf, who thought that his word alone was a good enough reason to help these men. It wasn't, by the way.

To make matters worse, John had taken to them like a duck in water. John had understood bits of what they were saying, and happily shared what he had learned as well, especially the cuss words. When they managed between them and their thick accents that they were all soldiers, the raucous laughing and yelling had started, and the teens had managed to find his liquor cabinet.

Bilbo could only stand back and watch in horror as the strange men, including John, engaged in disgustingly messy eating and food throwing. They sang randy songs in their native language while still chewing, and yelled as loud as they could with only half their mouths emptied of its drink. To add insult to injury, Bilbo's fussing was now being mocked by song and the throwing of his good china. If the alcohol weren't all gone, Bilbo would be doctoring his tea liberally.

Instead, he simply sat on a stool and sulked while his cousin and Gandalf cheered the lunatics on. He didn't say thank you when they proudly showed him the clean and stacked plates and bowls.

"One usually says thank you when someone does something nice for them," Gandalf suggested behind him. Oh heavens. Bilbo was going to lose it. He was absolutely going to give them all a piece of his mind with as many angry words as he could muster, propriety be damned, starting with Gandalf –

BANG BANG BANG

"You'd better get the door," Gandalf told Bilbo, who was so shocked that there were still people coming that he completely forgot his anger and obediently went. He opened the door to the sight of another Middle Eastern man, this one with dark skin that could not hide the scars on his face, which was framed by thick black hair occasionally divided with white strands of a hard life. He also had glittering black eyes, hairs above his lip, and rippling muscles to make a towering and very intimidating figure.

"Bilbo," Gandalf said, "let me introduce you to the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield."

Thorin stepped in, crowding Bilbo into his own house. "So, this is the - "

And that's when Bombur slammed into Thorin from behind, flattening him onto the ground with an oomph! "Sorry!" Bombur said drunkenly, "I wanted to pick some of those lovely flowers outside!" In his hands were the broken stems of Bilbo's prize petunias.

Bilbo felt his blood boil.

* * *

"He looks more like a grocer than an adventurer. Are you sure he will come with us?" Thorin asked Gandalf, once he had gotten Bombur off him and regained his dignity.

Bilbo dimly noticed his temper snapping at the thought of Thorin discussing him with Gandalf in front of him, and blurted out "Sorry, are you a man or a woman?"

He had noticed very slight curves that were just out of place on such a man, and though it was rude to ask, it was probably better to get it out in the open instead of being wrong. Also, he didn't really care anymore.

"I'm a woman," Thorin snarled as the temperature dropped several degrees.

"Oh." Bilbo said.

"Erebor. Our Kingdom." Thorin whispered as Gandalf spread a map on the dinner table. Bilbo carried Thorin's dirty dishes and tablerag to the kitchen and dropped them into the sink.

"Bilbo, if we could have a bit more light?" Gandalf called out. He flipped on another switch as he walked back in.

At the table, John sat with Dwalin and Balin at his left and Fili and Kili at his right, while the Ur brothers sat across from him. All throughout dinner they had been the rowdiest bunch, and Bilbo was grateful they had finally fallen quiet, at least for a while. Bilbo would treasure his peace while he could.

Though he didn't think Thorin was bringing peace into his house.

"Gandalf has kindly lent us his resources and time so that we may reclaim Erebor. In the meantime, we must recover the Arkenstone for him." Thorin announced. When the others started protesting, she raised up a hand. "Only as a loan. I would not give away our heritage so easily."

Gandalf gave her an amused look. "Then perhaps you would like this back," He said as he put his hand into an inner pocket in his coat. His hand reemerged soon after, twirling a strange dark object.

Thorin gaped. "How did you come by this?"

"Your father gave it to me, for safekeeping. The key to the Arkenstone. Once you reclaim Erebor, you will be able to unlock the old safe with this. I daresay this might even help you enter Erebor itself."

Thorin stared hard at Gandalf before sighing and taking the key from him.

"Did you meet with Dain?" Dwalin asked.

Thorin slumped down into her chair. "Our brothers and sisters in Dain's "Ironhills" will not come. Syria has their own revolution to worry about."

"Then this is hopeless! How can 13 people reclaim an entire kingdom?! We have toymakers and miners and bankers! We can't win!" Balin cried in despair.

"WE WILL WIN!" Thorin roared and Bilbo's heart froze. "I would take any one of you over a thousand of Dain's soldiers, for when I called, you came." She continued.

Her eyes pierced chains into the hearts of all in her presence that night, tying them to her. "Loyalty and a willing heart. I can ask no more than that."

But Balin had stood up as well. "Thorin, those things can't change reality, and the reality is, Erebor is no longer ours! Smaug's footholds in the country are far too strong and it would be suicide to risk you Thorin! You are the King, the head of the royal family of Durin! It would help no one if you died on a vain quest!" Balin cried out.

"Smaug may be strong, but Erebor has no love for its dictators. Meanwhile eyes look east to the mountain assessing, wondering, weighing the risk... Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected. Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?!" Thorin yelled back.

"FOR EREBOR!" Thorin's company yell, and John cheered along while banging the table with his fist.

"How can I live with myself when my people are suffering? I alone live in freedom, out of all my people, I alone have influence – I will not waste the circumstances of my birth. I do not deserve what I have if I squander it." Thorin finished quietly before sitting down.

Gandalf cleared his throat. "Nevertheless, we will need allies. I have prepared a route for us to follow before we reach Erebor. A few detours will be worth it. But we will be going to other countries."

"We don't need help," Thorin said grumpily.

"That's why we need a translator!" Ori said happily.

"Yes indeed, and a good one too!" Bilbo agreed.

"He says he's a translator!" Oin yelled out.

"An excellent one!" Gloin added! "The portents were true! Fate is with us!"

"What – no!" Bilbo spluttered.

Thorin waved her hand at Balin. "Give him the contract."

Bilbo could only dumbly take the stack of papers Thorin shoved into his chest. He quickly scanned it.

"It's just the usual; summary of out-of-pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements, so forth." Balin explained.

"Funeral arrangements?" Bilbo squeaked. John snorted.

Bilbo kept reading. "…Up to but not exceeding one fourteenth total profit if any. Seems fair. Present company shall not be liable for injuries including but not limited to laceration, evisceration…incineration?"

"Aye – bombs, you know! And mines! So hot they'll melt the flesh right off your bones?"

Bilbo whimpered. The company shot him confused looks. John, Thorin, Balin and Gandalf stared straight at him.

"You alright, laddie?" Balin asked.

Bilbo couldn't breathe. "Nope," he choked out in a squeak before ungainly flopping on the floor.

* * *

"I'm fine, I just need to sit quietly for a bit - " Bilbo whispered, more to comfort himself than anyone else.

"You've been sitting quietly for far too long. What happened to the Bilbo Baggins that used to give his reckless thrill-seeking cousin a run for his money? I always expected you to grow up like John, except what do I find? Someone who's lived far too safely for too long! What happened to you, Bilbo?!"

But at Gandalf's words, Bilbo's vision started to tunnel again, and all he could see was his mother returning from another adventure in a body bag while a police officer expressed his blank condolences to his father. It was all well and good for his mother; she was gone. It was up to teenage Bilbo to carry his father through his grief, and ultimately, fail.

Yet a small part, and this is the part he hated in himself, heard the call of the adventure in the tale of woe his guests had woven; had echoed the spark of excitement he had seen in his cousin's eyes; had looked back into Thorin's eyes while the rest of him shrank away and had found, to his dismay, someone he would follow to his death, just as Belladonna had.

"Bilbo," Gandalf started.

"I'm not even that good of a translator," Bilbo whined.

"Don't sell yourself short, Bilbo Baggins, I know very well your love of languages from far and wide. You would be a great help to Thorin Oakenshield."

"Can you promise that I will come back?" Bilbo asked, voice betraying how very much he wanted to go.

"No," Gandalf answered immediately, "and if you do, you will not be the same."

And that was the last straw for Bilbo, for where else could he go? Bag End was home. If he couldn't come back, then he couldn't go. Simple as that. Besides, who risks his life to do a bit of translating?

"I'm sorry Gandalf, but you've got the wrong guy." He said, and tried to ignore the despair sinking in as he walked out of his bedroom. He head straight for the kitchen, ignorning his various guests piled around his house, but stopped when he heard voices.

"I'm not interested in profit, Thorin. I'd be happy to accept what an average footsoldier would receive." John said.

"I believe we can afford that. Are you sure about this?" Thorin asked.

"I'm sure." John replied.

Thorin clapped him on the soldier. "Welcome to the team." John smiled at her before turning to the hallway Bilbo was hiding in. The second John spotted him, Bilbo grabbed his arm and dragged him off.

"Have you lost your mind?! You can't just go off on your own like that!" Bilbo hissed at John.

"Yes I can, and I will. I'm going with them. I can fight." John said with a military straight back.

"What about Sherlock?" Bilbo asked.

"I'm no good to Sherlock right now, and I'm tired of sitting around waiting for news. Gandalf said if I go with Thorin, I could finally do something. I'm sorry, I have to go." John said in a more confident tone.

"You'll break his heart." Bilbo pleaded. "He'll be devastated if you leave."

John was angry now. "He left me for three years. You do what you want, but I'm not sutting around at home while everyone else is off having adventures."

"John," Bilbo whispered, defeated.

John pulled his cousin to sit on the bed beside him. "Do you remember your mother's birthday?"

"Yeah." Bilbo said softly.

John sighed. "We went mental, got in a lot of trouble, and came back changed. But wasn't it worth it?"

Bilbo didn't answer.

"You can't always hide away just because something's risky. You know in your heart what's right. But I'd rather trust myself now then never know. I'll live with the consequences."

But can you, Bilbo thought desperately. Can I?

John turned back to him when his hand was on the doorknob. "And I want you to really think about if you can live with the consequences of never doing anything."

John shut the door.

* * *

Bilbo silently brushed his teeth and prepared for bed. When he turned off the light, the first snatches drifted into his room. The men sang, low and slow. A few notes higher and just a bit louder Thorin sang, changing Bilbo into someone he didn't recognize. Bilbo tossed and turned, and finally gave in. He scooted to the edge of his bed, leaned his head slowly on the bedpost and let the sounds consume him.

_Far over the misty mountains cold,_

_Past oceans deep to lands of old,_

_We must away, ere break of day,_

_To reclaim our long abandoned home…_


End file.
